


Drabbles and Snippets

by WandersUnderStarlight



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AUs, Bakery AU, Bonding, Carrier Coding, Crack, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mob AU, One Shot Collection, Pirate AU, coffee shop AU, fall of praxus, mermaid au, monster au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandersUnderStarlight/pseuds/WandersUnderStarlight
Summary: This is an assortment of Jazz/Prowl one-shots. Tags will be updated as more are added. Went ahead and rated it M for possible future chapters.





	1. Come Sail with Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "The Dark Side of the Moon" from the Apollo 13 OST.  
> :Blah.:- comm. speak

The ragged cliffs of the Sonic Canyons hosted a plethora of multi-sized terraced port towns. From shacks to villas; dwellings, social venues and businesses of every type were tucked in seemingly haphazard formations along the flats and dips of the cliffs.

Citrine Hold was one such cliff-side town. 

Prowl made his way down the quiet, moon dappled streets. He much preferred this dim solitude to the raucous lamplit tavern. His crew could enjoy themselves as much as they wanted before they left port, he didn’t begrudge them that. He just didn’t share their enthusiasm for high-grade and giggling serving-mechs. 

They’d come in disguised as a merchant vessel for a well deserved night on the town, Hound cheerfully volunteering to stay behind to keep up the charade. Prowl made a mental note to swing by the Island of the Towers so the green mech could go visit that noble he’d been slowly swaying to a life of adventure. The hologrammed ship meant an uneventful interaction with the port. No need to scare the inhabitants with sightings of “The Enforcer” and her infamous Captain. Their last few raids had gone quite well and so Prowl had decided to leave the medium sized port-town be and sternly ordered his crew to act “civilized” while they celebrated.

There was not much of value here to be taken, anyway.

The sky was crisp and clear tonight. Cybertron’s double moons hung large and full in the deep blue firmament.

He was passing by one of the more elaborate villas when a pure toned melody softly lit upon the air. He followed the sound with audios and optics, surprised to see a two-toned mech sitting on the roof of the house. Moonlight gleamed off black and white plaiting alike. A dim blue visor was turned up to the heavens while lonely wordless notes spilled from the mech’s vocalizer. Prowl was entranced. 

Movement to his left startled him. His servo clapped onto the hilt of his sword.

The rusted and dirty old femme that had managed to sneak up on him just stared for a moment, seemingly unperturbed by the threat, then whispered, “Alms fo’ a poor old femme?”

Prowl relaxed his cables and removed his servo from his sword; he pulled a few shinax from subspace.

“Thank ya, Sir.”

“Mum,” He said before she could scuttle away into the shadows, “can you tell me whose house this is?”

The femme’s optics filled with a bit of fear. “Oh, tha’s Lord Soundwave’s house, tha’ is.”

Prowl looked back at the singer. “And the young mech up there?”

“Tha’s Jazz,” The femme’s voice had dropped back to a whisper, “‘is pretty little ward. Trys t’ keep him locked up, bu’ our Jazz always finds a way t’ get ou’ and bring us food, money. He’s a good one, our little Lord. But Lord Soundwave’s gone and done somethin’ terrible.”

She paused unhappily. 

“What did he do?” Prowl urged her to continue.

“‘E’s made th’ big announcement tha’ ‘e intends t’ bond t’ our little Lord.”

Another note rang forlornly down from the roof.

“Is that why he sings so sadly?” Prowl asked.

The femme just nodded, her old, keen optics on him as he continued staring at the figure on the roof. “Lord Soundwave’s doubled ‘is security. Jazz ‘asn’t been able t’ get ou’ fo’ cycles. Only time we see ‘im is when the moons come ou’ and ‘e sits on th’ roof, singin’ ‘is spark ou’.”

The visored mech finally came to the end of his song and as if he could sense the optics on him he looked down to where Prowl and the femme were standing. His visor brightened in surprise, then he gave a sad sort of smile and waved weakly.

Prowl raised his servo and curled his digits down into a light fist before placing it on his chestplate. A Praxian greeting. Even if the young Lord didn’t know the context, it still made his smile strengthen just the smallest bit and he copied the motion.

An indistinguishable shout from the house had Jazz tensing and climbing down from the roof with one last apologetic smile at them.

“Poor little Lord. I wish I coul’ ‘elp ‘im.” the femme muttered. “Thank ya for yar kindness, Sir.” Then she ambled off into the night.

Prowl waited until her pede-steps had faded away before activating his comm.

:Yeah, Captain?: His first mate answered promptly, which boded well.

:Smokescreen, just how overcharged is the crew?:

Smokescreen’s voice took on an interested tilt. :Oh, not too much, why?:

:Change of plans. We’re taking this port. I found something worth acquiring.:

:Oooo. Is it pretty?:

Prowl smirked. :He’s gorgeous.:

 

And later with the weak light of the false dawn shining through the windows and mech-blood on his blade, Prowl found the young Lord in a heavily guarded suite. The visored mech was brandishing a poker from the fireplace as he entered the room. Jazz’s face went slack with shocked recognition as Prowl stalked right up to him. The poker slipped from Jazz’s hold. He didn’t resist as Prowl swept him up into a carry and spirited him away from his prison.


	2. Don't Call Me Mommy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz's Carrier Coding is accidentally activated. Cue crazy Seekers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much crack, but fun.

It took Bluestreak seeking him out for comfort after a bad recharge-flux for Jazz to realize that his Carrier Coding had somehow overridden his homemade dormancy program. More specifically, it was the fact that Jazz had let the young mech into his quarters on autopilot while half in recharge and then sang old Polyhexian lullabies until the Bluestreak fell back asleep that made the visored mech aware of what was happening. A closer examination of the dormancy program’s failure had him nearly facepalming as he realized that his tac-net had labelled all humans as “fragile/sparklings”. No amount of overwriting or cursing his systems would change the diagnostic. And with “sparklings” around, the Carrier Coding refused to be turned off. 

Megatron had done his damndest during the beginning of the war to eradicate mechs and femmes with the Code. Only bots with Carrier Coding could carry newsparks and the silver tyrant had reasoned the controlling the carrier population would cause the Autobots to crumble beneath him. All the cull had done was enrage the Autobots and nearly lost him the fearsome Seekers, as one of their functions before the war had been the protection of carriers and newsparks. Primus knows how he convinced/ intimidated them into remaining on his side. 

Jazz had been a youngling at the time and it was only because of his own clever carrier that he had survived. His carrier had figured out how to keep Jazz’s code manually dormant for his own safety. Now with his Carrier Code accidentally activated, he was liable to have an even bigger target on his back than being just the TIC. 

He was fortunate that Bluestreak was too young to understand the true reason why he sought Jazz out. Praxians, being Seeker-kin as they were, could sense if bots had the Code. Blue’s code had probably latched onto Jazz’s as a youngling-creator relationship. The other two Praxians on the Ark were (hopefully) probably both far too busy reviewing battle tactics to pay attention to their code sensors.

Though, now that Jazz thought about it, had Smokescreen had given him a double take the other local cycle? Had Prowl leaned closer than previously in their officers’ meeting?

Jazz had to forcibly boot his paranoia out of his processor. What would it matter if either of them knew? He was far too used to hiding, he supposed. His real worry should be the Seekers, they were far more in tune with their base coding.

In the very next battle, he ended up cursing his apparent prophetic abilities.

Jazz always knew that a Seeker was likely to be the death of him, he just didn’t realize that it would be metaphorical rather than literal.

He heard the displaced pop of air behind him and turned expecting pain and the singeing of his plating. Strangely, though, he managed to complete his turn and faced Skywarp who seemed to have forgotten that he was holding a blaster. The snarl on the Seeker’s face was slowly fading to be replaced by puzzlement. Jazz should have taken the advantage to shoot or blast him with his sound attack, but the fragging code was helpfully informing him of the Seeker’s actual age. He had to forcibly stomp down on the urge to yell at the Decepticon high command for putting a near-youngling in such danger. The purple Seeker was barely older than Bluestreak!

Skywarp’s face changed from confusion into a worrying sort of unholy joy.

“I found one!” he yelled surging forward to wrap his arms around Jazz’s midsection and yank the smaller ground mech off his pedes and into a cuddle. Jazz awkwardly patted Skywarp’s helm eliciting a happy purr.

“Um, hi Skywarp.”

The Seeker churred, “You can just call me ‘Warp.”

The battle around them stopped out of sheer incredulousness. 

“Skywarp!” Starscream bellowed flying closer, “What do you think you’re doing!? You’re supposed to kill Autobots, not snuggle them!”

“No! He’s mine! I found him first!”

“What are you talking abou-” Then Starscream flew close enough for his Seeker coding to twig on to what was going on. His optics paled to near pink in surprise.

A moment of silence stretched out and then Starscream found his vocalizer. “Get him out of here, right now!”

“Hey now-!” Jazz tried to protest, but Skywarp let out a gleeful chirp and the world blinked out of existence for a moment with a purple flash. Jazz had to reset his optics as his equilibrium center recalibrated. He looked around quickly.

They had teleported to some sort of cave. An arched entrance to the transformer-sized space showed a twisting tunnel. The rock crevasses in the “room” were filled with shiny objects of every sort and at the back wall was a large ring of scrap metal filled with meshes (of both Cybertronian and Earthen origin, it seemed). It looked like… a nest?

“What th’ frag, mech?!” Jazz sputtered.

The purple Seeker chuckled. “Don’t worry, Carrier-Jazz, we’ll take care of you.”

“Please don't call me that. And um, ‘we’?”

“Yeah! Me, Star and TC. And the Rainmakers and the Coneheads. We’ll keep you safe so you can have lots of newsparks!”

Skywarp (finally) put him down, making sure that he was steady on his pedes before letting go.

“No offence, mechling,” (slagit, that had slipped out without his permission), “bu’ I don’ wanna have newsparks with all of you.”

Jazz tentatively tried his comms. Jammed. Of course.

Skywarp chortled, wingtips dipping. “Of course not! We’re your _Chaperones_.” He used the Cybertronian glyph that layered the word with the concepts of guardians/providers/wardens. “We’ll protect you and bring you what you need here.”

Jazz looked around again. “Where is ‘here’, ‘xactly?

Skywarp preened. “This is our secret aviary. We were going crazy underwater in the Nemesis, so Star found this mountaintop cave and we started recharging here when we needed it. Even Megatron doesn’t know it’s here. You’ll be safe.”

“Thanks, I guess? But the Autobots will be gettin’ worried ‘bout me. I really should be gettin’ back to the Ark.”

“They don’t have to worry.” Skywarp said with a confident head tilt, “Seekers always take care of Carriers.

The visored mech vented out a little huff. “Well, they might not know tha’ I’m a Carrier since I’ve been keepin’ my coding under wraps.”

“They will now. Star told them.”

How…? Right, trine bond.

Jazz buried his face in his servos. “Tha’s not a good thing, Skywarp!”

The purple flyer urged him to the… yes, he’d have to admit, it was a nest. “Here, rest, you’re getting stressed.”

“I wonder why.” Jazz snarked, but he let himself be guided into the plush aerie. He could always try to escape later. Skywarp settled him into the meshes and then snuggled in next to him. Jazz jerked a bit when the Seeker took out a soft cloth from subspace and started to buff his scratched plating.

Grooming him.

Convincing himself to relax took some doing, but as it became apparent that all Skywarp was going to do was shine him up, he managed to loosen his cables and plating. He fell into a half-meditative state in the nearly peaceful quiet of the cave. It was shattered, of course when he heard the distinctive, of muted, sound of thrusters.

“It’s just Star and TC.” Skywarp soothed. “They brought fuel. The Rainmakers might come later, but Star has them on patrol right now.”

Jazz frowned. “Ya’ll can’t jus’ keep me here. I’m not a pet.”

“Of course not.” Starscream sniffed rounding the curve of the entrance tunnel. Thundercracker followed close behind him. “You’re our _Charge_.” Again, Cybertronian. The word twisting together to mean something like: honored guest/ward/carrier.

“I’m an Autobot, Starscream.” Jazz said stubbornly.

The blue, white and red jet paced to the edge of the nest and loomed at its edge. He thrust a cube of energon towards the visored mech. “Damn the factions. You are one of the last of your kind. You must be kept safe and alive if Cybertron is to live again.”

Jazz snorted and took the cube. “I can’t repopulate Cybertron on my own.”

Starscream smirked, “Not without a mate, which is why we will be taking over the vetting process.”

The visored mech nearly spat out the mouthful of fuel he’d just taken. “Wha’?!”

Starscream cackled as Thundercracker sighed and shoved him out of the way so he could clambered into the nest ignoring how Jazz tensed up. He sat on Jazz’s side opposite Skywarp.

“It will be your choice.” Thundercracker rumbled. “Recharge for now.”

Then Starscream climbed into the nest and started arranging meshes to bed down. Jazz resigned himself to recharging surrounded by overprotective Seekers. He’d have to wait until two of them went out for fuel again. He should have tried to get away when it was just Skywarp. He mentally kicked himself for not attempting such earlier.

The next few local cycles were a study of frustration and amusement. The Seekers continually brought him fuel and gifts and, after the Rainmakers and Coneheads showed up, argued amongst themselves as to who is the best suited to be his protector. 

He tried to escape. Multiple times. But the Seekers were hardwired to zero in on him. He never got far enough down the exit to even see the outside. The latest attempt during the middle of the night had ended in failure and embarrassment as Ramjet had sleepily caught him before he even got halfway through the entrance tunnel and chastised him for leaving the aerie without an escort as he carried him back to the Seeker pile. Ramjet of all mechs!

And through it all the Seekers kept subtly and not-so-subtly trying to figure out who he’d like as a mate. And annoyingly, they were managing to get little hints out of him by sheer persistence. It was exasperating. 

Skywarp teleported in as Dirge was trying to convince Jazz to try an energon goodie he’d made. Dirge was a surprisingly good cook, but it was the principle of the thing!

“Star, the Autobots have a contingent closing in. They’re being led by the SIC.”

“Prowl?” Jazz said hopefully.

He was suddenly the focus of every optic in the cave and the calculating looks did not bode well. 

Frag… Had they figured it out? He thought he’d been so careful.

“Skywarp, go,” Starscream ordered. “You know what to do. The rest of you, take up patrols around the mountain.”

Skywarp whooped and teleported with a flash. The other Seekers besides Starscream cleared out so fast that Jazz’s processor spun.

“Wha’ th’ frag-?”

A flash of light over Jazz’s head announced Skywarp’s return right before a doorwinged form was dropped onto the padding beside him with a startled “Oof!”. Skywarp waved cheerily before warping out again. Prowl looked around in confusion from where he’d been dropped on his front before pushing himself up into a kneeling position.

“Jazz! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Prowler.”

“Excellent!” Starscream gloated. “I trust you can take it from here.”

And he left.

Prowl gazed at Jazz with no little confusion and growing awe.

“You really are a Carrier.”

“Yeah…”

“And the Skywarp brought me here because…?”

Oh Primus, this was going to be awkward.


	3. Jolly Sailor Bold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Polyhexians are rare, aquatic mechs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Brain:  
> Me: Okay, so today I'm going to work on-  
> Jazz muse: I WANNA BE A MERMAID!  
> Me:...fine. -.-

Prowl grunted in pain behind the gag stuffed in his mouth as Lockdown viciously tied off the last knot around his over-extended arms. The titanium rope bit cruelly into his plating. 

“This is your fault, kid,” Lockdown sneered. “If you’d joined my crew, you’d be readying the trap instead of being the bait for it.”

Prowl mutely glared at the big mech. Lockdown was the worst kind of hunter. He and his crew hunted the rare aquatic Polyhexians that lived in the Sea of Acid. The black market paid large sums to get things like their acid-resistant plating, the delicate colored scaled from their tails, their vicious claws and fanged denta. Like slag was he going to join a crew that wanted to bring pain and misery upon other sentient mechs. But Prowl had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and attracted Lockdown’s attention. Now he was paying for it. 

They’d beaten him up after his refusal and dragged him to this off-coast sea cave. It had a small rock shelf at the back wall of the hidden cove where they’d hastily erected an iron pole and lashed his upper body to it. His pedes were nearly trailing off the safety of the rock and into the acid below. Energon flowed sluggishly from minor nicks and cuts all over his body trailing down the slight incline of the rock. Luminescent minerals imbedded in the cave walls lit the space in a subdued amber glow.

“At least you’ll get a good frag out of it before the end,” somebot in the waiting rowboat said nastily. “Or maybe the Poly’ll just kill you.”

Stories about Polyhexians were hearsay at best and outright fabrications at worst. Everything from mechs being dragged to their deactivations in the deep acid so the Polyhexians could feast on their protoforms to Polyhexians luring bots to secret caves for hours of interfacing to the aquatic mechs somehow growing legs and following certain bots onto land. Still other stories said that they helped shipwrecked bots survive the acid depths. No bot knew what was fact. The Polyhexians were strange, elusive and alluring. 

Prowl had seen one, once. He’d been a youngling crossing the Sea of Acid on a ship with his creators. After finding recharge impossible, he’d snuck out of their cabin and walked aimlessly around the top deck of the ship. An unusual sounding splash off the side of the ship had drawn his attention and he’d looked over the side and into a curiously shining blue visor, it was too dark to see any sort of defining plating colors. The mechling looked to be about his age and seemed to be having no trouble treading the acid in which he floated.

Prowl had opened his mouth to call out and ask if the mechling needed any help. The visored bot had put a clawed digit to his dermas in a mute request for silence. It was then that Prowl saw the distinctive audial horn silhouette and realized he was looking at a Polyhexian. The doorwinged mech had closed his mouth and put his own digit on his dermas with a nod. The mech had given him a fanged grin illuminated by the light of his visor.

They had stared at one another for a few breems and Prowl… felt something. Like a delicate connection between them. Suddenly the Polyhexian had startled at something and dove away under the acid with a flash of fins. A klik later the night watchman had clapped a servo on Prowl’s shoulder and steered him back towards his creators’ cabin with a gentle admonishment.

Prowl had told no bot about his encounter.

It seemed now, though, that he was going to unwillingly get another.

Lockdown boarded the rowboat without a backward glance. “Let’s get into position. We may be waiting here for a while.”

Prowl could only watch through pain-static optics as they rowed out and then used mags to reel themselves up to the cloaked hover-ship. The crew would wait there with nets and hooks until the Polyhexian was distracted. He’d just have to warn the aquatic bot before they tried to free him… or eat him.

For a long time there was only the hushed sound of dripping and lapping acid against the rocks. He could almost convince himself that he was alone and there was no cloaked ship hovering on silent anti-gravs at the top of the cove. He ached all over and he was losing the feeling in his digits with the way his arms were tied up over his helm. His energy levels were dropping. He couldn’t get any leverage to try and slip out of the ropes. He could only sit and endure and wait.

Movement caught his optic.

An inky swell appeared on the surface of the acid and then retreated back under. It happened again… and again. Teasing flashes of darkly shining scales. The liquid rippled oddly. A shadowed shape circled and snaked in lazy patterns just under the surface closer and closer to the the doorwinged mech. Prowl was too weak by this point to even try to drag his pedes away from the edge of the rock shelf.

Slowly the shape under the opaque acid stopped in front of him. Just as slowly a black sensor horn crowned helm breached the surface followed by a blue visor.

That visor… It was so familiar. It couldn’t possibly be… could it?

A clawed servo danced gently up his leg then planted itself on the rock next to him. The Polyhexian drew himself up and placed his other servo on the rock as well, bracketing Prowl’s legs. The horned helm dipped and the mech lapped at a wound with a cool, silvery glossa. He warbled at Prowl in a strange melodic language that he had no hope of understanding. Then the aquatic mech used his arms and powerful serpent-like tail to crawl his way up Prowl’s body. Though to call it crawling was a gross misunderstanding of the grace and sensuality the mech exhibited while moving.

Prowl worried for a moment about acid dripping on him, but the liquid seemed to evaporate immediately off the mech. A pleasant tingling followed in the wake of wherever their plating touched.

With the Polyhexian nearly half-beached on top of him, Prowl could see nearly the entire length of the mech’s body. Though his torso was that of a normal mech, the finned tail was much longer than the doorwinged mech expected. It was hard to tell with the tail twisting and serpentine, but Prowl thought it might be at least four or five times the length of the Polyhexian’s torso. 

Prowl tried to speak. He had to warn him. Any breem now the hunters would spring their trap.

The Polyhexian reached up and expertly sliced through the gag with a claw, removing it from Prowl’s mouth.

“You have to get away.” Prowl rasped, vocalizer clicking from disuse. “It’s a trap.”

The Polyhexian cupped his face, mindful of his claws, and leaned forward. He whispered directly against Prowl’s dermas in perfect Iaconian. “I know.”

He took advantage of Prowl’s open mouthed surprise to swoop in and give him a processor melting kiss full of plundering glossa and sharp denta. Prowl lost the ability to think for a moment. His fans roared to life.

The Polyhexian pulled back panting heat out of his mouth.

“You might want to turn off your optics.” He whispered.

“What-?”

Prowl’s optics flared in distress as he saw over the Polyhexian’s shoulder to see Lockdown’s crew repelling from the cloaked ship with nets and weapons. But before he could make a sound, the acid in the cove exploded with violent movement as nearly a score of Polyhexians breached the surface screeching and claws extended. Powerful undulations of their tails launched them extraordinarily high out of the acid. They grabbed the perilously hanging mechs, slashing ropes and raking plating, pulling mechs back down with them into the acid. Screams of the land mechs mixed with the shrieking howls of the attacking aquatic mechs. Through it all, Prowl’s Polyhexian stayed with him coiling his tail around Prowl’s legs and petting his helm soothingly when he flinched at the sounds.

The engines of the cloaked ship roared to life, Lockdown and his surviving crew cutting their losses (and leaving mechs behind) to escape the fury of the Polyhexians.

The aquatic mech on Prowl’s lap made short work of the ropes binding him and helped message feeling back into the doorwinged mech’s servos.

“I remember you.” The Polyhexian said. 

“It is you, isn’t it? The one I saw when I was little.” Prowl murmured. 

The Polyhexian grinned that sharp-dentaed grin.

“What’s your name?” Prowl asked (begged).

The mech trilled something beautiful and incomprehensible, then nuzzled Prowl’s chevron. “...But you can call me Jazz.”


	4. Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one way to save a split-spark twin when one dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: How about we write some fluff today?  
> Jazz-muse: Sure! But have this first *gives teacup*  
> Me: ...This is full of angst.  
> Jazz-muse: *pouts* But I made it for you!  
> Me: ...*sips*...

The high command was in an officer’s meeting when Jazz suddenly convulsed and fell out of his chair screaming and thrashing on the floor. Sound and confusion exploded in the room. Ratchet was across the space and at the mech’s side in a nano-klik. 

“Ratchet, what’s happening?!” Optimus yelled.

“Slaggit, his spark is fluctuating rapidly.” Ratchet said tersely. “Jazz, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“R-Rico-chet. Gone. Gone, gone, gone, Gone, GONE!” His voice rose to a wail.

Ratchet loosed a volley of curses. “That’s his split-spark twin.” He finished whatever scan he was running. “Primus, damnit! Their twin bond is broken! Jazz is fading, fast!”

“How do we save him?” Optimus demanded.

“Someone has to bond with him right now.” Ratchet said with a grim frown.

Prowl’s even, calm tenor cut through the tension in the room. “I volunteer.”

Shock permeated the panic of the mechs present. Prowl and Jazz had a sort of working antagonism. They disagreed about almost everything, but managed to use their differences to come up with the most foolproof and successful operations. Outside of work, however, most mechs were pretty sure they hated each other.

Prowl came to kneel on the other side of Jazz’s writhing form from Ratchet. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“It’s permanent, Prowl.”

“I know.”

Ratchet nodded gruffly. “When you form the bond you have to convince him to stay. Right now his spark is trying its damndest to follow its other half. You have to persuade it that you’re a good replacement.”

The medic used his medical override to trigger Jazz’s chestplates and spark chamber open. 

 

Empty. Silence. Pain.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Floating unmoored, trying to chase and grasp at the dissipating wisps of the apparition of his twin. 

He ran into a gentle solid presence. A warm ruby to his electric blue. So different than his twin’s vibrant tangerine.

**:Easy. I’m here.:**

He knew who it was. Could feel the strange/wrong/good sensation of the presence trying to pick up his shattered pieces and meld them back together with its own. He curled away onto himself.

**:Ricochet’s gone.:**

**:I know.:**

He tried to pull away.

**:Hurts. Wanna find him. Make the hurt stop.:**

The presence enveloped him. Held him like he was made of the frailest crystal.

**:Stay. I will make the pain go away.:**

**:But Ricochet…:**

**:He won’t be forgotten, I promise. Give me your pain. I will carry it with you.:**

He resisted. He had to know.

**:Why help me? Why do this for me?:**

**:I like you.:**

**:...Really? But I thought you hated me.:**

Something that felt like the bubbles in an oil bath. A chuckle.

**:Emotions are difficult for me. It’s easier here. I can just show you.:**

Images of two black and white forms, arguing, bantering. Emotions not his own flavoring the scene. Respect. Admiration. Fond annoyance.

**:You make me better. Bring out the best in me. It scared me at first. But the thought of losing you…:**

A wash of pain. Different than his own.

**:Let me help you.:**

**:I don’t want to be a burden on you.:**

**:I'd rather help you carry your burden than watch you suffer under it.:**

The plea broke his thin resolve. He keened and let the agony of losing his twin pour out of him. The ruby entity welcomed the onslaught, taking the tidal wave of emotion until he was wrung out and exhausted. 

**:Please don’t leave me. I thought I’d lost the ability to feel after Praxus fell. But then I met you and I came alive again. I don’t want to fall back into the numbness again.:**

A moment stretched timeless between them. Hesitation. Patience. Sorrow. Comfort. Loneliness. Companionship. 

Blue bridged the gap between them. Red melted the jagged edges. Soothing light encircled and bound them together.

 

Jazz came to cradled in Prowl’s arms. He reached a shaky servo up to cup Prowl’s cheek. The tactician placed his servo over Jazz’s. 

**:I am here.:**


	5. Love at First Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Shop/ Bakery AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the fluffy thing I was trying to write before my Jazz-muse decided that angst was tasty. Inspired by a comment about throwing a laptop on the floor of a coffee shop ;) (No laptops are thrown or hurt in this fic)

The lull after the morning rush was always Jazz’s favorite time of day. Besides the breather after the plethora of satisfied customers left, this was the time when Jazz’s favorite customer came in.

He felt a playful nudge across his twin bond.

“Ya’re thinkin’ about yar Enforcer again, ain’t ya?” Ricochet teased with a light grin. He finished mixing a drink for a waiting patron and delivered it with a cheerful flash of his orange visor.

“He’s not my anythin’.” Jazz mumbled, busying himself by tidying the already spotless goodie counter.

“Oh really?” Ricochet lounged against the additive bar as the customer left. “Then why are ya the one he always comes t’ see?”

“He likes my goodies, that’s all.”

“Ha, I’m suuuuure it’s yar ‘goodies’ he comes for.”

“Knock it off, Rico.”

His twin grinned unrepentantly and Jazz wished for the millionth time that Rico had a moon-sized crush on someone that he could tease him about. But, no, that was just Jazz.

Starting up their little additive shop/bakery in Praxus had been a struggle at first. The Praxians were overtly suspicious of outsiders. A pair of Polyhexian merchants attempting to open a business were looked at with distrustful optics at best.

 

_The first few orns in Praxus hadn’t been going well. They were barely making enough shinax to keep the doors open. Most of their business came from other outsiders living nearby, of which there were few, and tourists, who were an unsteady stream._

_Jazz sighed. He’d resorted to standing outside the door in his monogrammed apron with a tray of free samples to attempt to entice customers inside. It was met with mixed success. Most of the Praxians were just… cold. Standoffish. A few were outright rude to him._

_He turned as he perceived approaching movement to his left. An Enforcer stopped next to him and inclined his helm slightly._

_“Good day, I am Officer Prowl and I was called to this address due to a complaint about loitering.” He gave Jazz an obvious look._

_Jazz felt his patience begin to run out. “I’m not loiterin’. I’m tryin’ t’ drum up business. I work in th’ shop.”_

_The officer seemed to consider this. “I see. Nevertheless, it is against the ordinance to sell your products outside your venue. As you are in violation of such I will have to write you a-”_

_After having dealt with snobby Praxians all morning (for orns), Jazz’s easy-going temper finally broke at the worst possible time._

_“It’s a free sample!” He snapped shoving a treat into the startled officer’s mouth. He felt his own momentary flash of horror and then a questioning poke from his twin bond. When he was charged with assaulting an officer, he wondered if they would list the energon goodie as a weapon._

_For his part, the officer didn’t seem to know how to react for a klik, then he slowly chewed and swallowed the confection that had been literally thrust upon him._

_“...You made this?”_

_“Er, yeah. I make th’ treats for th’ shop an’ my brother mixes th’ energon. He used t’ be a bartender an’ I like bakin’… so yeah.” He trailed off awkwardly._

_“It’s delicious. It… reminds me of the treats my carrier used to make when I was young.”_

_Jazz ducked his helm shyly. “Tha’s about th’ nicest compliment anybot’s ever given me.”_

_The officer’s doorwings flared and he looked at a store parallel to where they stood. Jazz followed his gaze and saw a Praxian form duck out of sight in the shop window across the street. The officer frowned. “You have my apologies. It appears as if somebot was trying to make trouble for your establishment.”_

_The Polyhexian shrugged uncomfortably. “Ain’t like we’re not used t’ it.”_

_“Allow me then to make up for it. I would very much like to purchase a box of those treats to take to my brother and his creation.”_

_Jazz mentally flailed for a moment. “I, uh, sure! Come on in and I’ll get those wrapped up for ya.”_

 

From then on, their business had thrived. Prowl had made his purchase and then not only brought his brother, Smokescreen (and his adorable nephew, Bluestreak), but also over the course of several deca-cycles, his _entire_ department, to their shop. After which, they had scores of regular customers. Either the shop being frequented by the Enforcers gave the populous confidence in them or the Enforcers themselves spread the word.

Prowl remained one of their best customers. He came in nearly every cycle to pick up small orders and had formed a friendship with both brothers, though he usually chatted with Jazz. The black and white Praxian had a hilariously wry sense of humor under his stern demeanor. He also very obviously doted on Bluestreak while indulging (enduring) Smokescreen’s good-natured teasing. He was kind and generous. And Jazz had fallen for him harder than an avalanche. Much to his brother’s amusement and his own consternation.

“Ya’re still totally thinkin’ abou’ him.” Ricochet sing-songed.

“Who is Jazz thinking about?” A bright, young voice asked.

Both twins startled, having forgotten that they’d left the door open to let the warm Praxian atmosphere in. Bluestreak looked up at them inquisitively, swinging his little servo back and forth in Prowl’s larger one. That’s right, it was Prowl’s cycle off and he always watched Bluestreak on those cycles. Jazz didn’t have Prowl’s schedule memorized, no way. That would be weird.

Ricochet grinned. “Well, lil’ bit, Jazz here is thinkin’ abou’-”

Later, Jazz would admit that he’d panicked. But at the moment all he could think was that Ricocheted was about to ruin everything. He grabbed a mid-grade sticky gel treat displayed on the counter and shoved it into Ricochet’s mouth.

Prowl raised an optical ridge as Ricochet flailed causing Bluestreak to laugh delightedly at his comical movement.

“Do you always do that to bots you don't want talking?” Prowl asked dryly.

“Only the ones I like.” 

Jazz wanted to smack his own helm after that slipped out. Ricochet guffawed around his mouthful.

“Me next!” Bluestreak demanded skipping up to the counter.

“Say, ‘please’.” Prowl reprimanded mildly allowing himself to be dragged along.

“Me next, please!” Bluestreak corrected himself and opened his mouth like a waiting baby mecha-sparrow. Jazz couldn’t help but chuckle at the cute spectacle and gently placed a small bite-sized treat into the mechling’s mouth.

Bluestreak hummed blissfully. “Mmmm! Nummy!” He glanced up at his uncle and then back at Jazz. “You gotta give Uncle Prowl one too.”

“Uh, I, um, well…”

“You like Uncle Prowl, don’t you?”

“O-of course I do.”

“Then you gotta give him one, too!”

“Um…”

“I’d like my regular, if you don’t mind.” Prowl said. His regular, meaning the treat Jazz had shoved in his mouth the first time they’d met. 

It was less Jazz shoving and more Prowl eating it out of his servo this time. Jazz tried to clamp down on his mortification when one of his fans thunked on. Prowl either didn't notice or pretended not to notice as he finished his treat.

“How much do I owe you?” Prowl asked.

“Don’t worry about it!” Ricochet said cheerfully having regained the ability to speak after a quick swig of energon to clear out the sticky gel. “Those are on the house today, for our favorite customers.”

“Are we really your favorite customers?” Bluestreak gasped.

Jazz managed a smile for the mechling. “Sure are, lil’ bit.” He risked a glance at Prowl, but the mech’s faceplates were unreadable. Jazz felt his spark sinking.

“We must be on our way.” Prowl said evenly, cooly, and Jazz’s spark sank further.

“Bye bye, Jazz! Bye bye, Ricochet!” Bluestreak yelled happily as they left.

Ricochet turned to his twin, grin slipping from his faceplates as he took in Jazz’s expression. He poked the twin bond and frowned at the dim unhappy feeling. “Hey, Jazzy, what’s wrong?”

“Did ya see th’ look he gave me?” Jazz said wrapping his arms around himself.

“What look? What are you-”

“I jus’ made a Primus-damned fool of myself! Wha’ th’ frag was I thinkin’?” Jazz snarled miserably. “Why didn’t I jus’- jus’-” He threw his servos up and stomped to the back of the store, slamming the door to the kitchen. Ricochet winced and mentally made a note to make a restock run later. Jazz always tended to make elaborate bakes when he was upset. Once when Ricochet had royally fragged him off, he’d made an edible filigree-work scale model sculpture of the Temple of Primus. Who knew how much of their supplies would be left when he came out of his funk.

 

Joors had passed in a blur. Jazz placed the fourth tier of the delicate oil cake on the top of his creation. He sighed and put his crossed arms on the table in front of it before laying his helm on them despondently. He looked up at the towering layers. The cake was a thing of beauty. White gel-cream covered each tier with delicate accents of black and red swooping and sweeping across the surface in swirls and chevrons. He groaned and buried his helm in his arms. He’d decorated the cake in Prowl’s colors! How pathetic was he?

He heard the kitchen door open quietly behind him.

“Go away, Ricochet, an’ let me wallow in peace,” he moaned without looking. 

“That is quite impressive.” The soft familiar voice made Jazz freeze. He jerked around. Prowl stood gazing at his mood-induced creation.

“Uh, th-thanks?”

Prowl smiled slightly. “It is hard for me to believe somebot as talented as you would like a bot like me.”

“What? I mean, um, is this about earlier…?”

“Your brother might have had some choice words for me before he let me back here.”

Jazz cursed internally for muting the twin bond. If he hadn’t, he might have had some sort of warning.

Prowl continued, “I didn’t mean to upset you, but I had to mask my reaction or I might have done something untoward in front of my nephew.”

“‘Untoward’?” Jazz parroted. 

“Feeding you a treat and then kissing you to see what it tasted like from your dermas would have been unbecoming of a role model and an officer.”

Jazz’s fans betrayed him again and whirled to life.

“Isn’t this kinda sudden?”

“Not really,” Prowl admitted with a shy duck of his helm. “I think I liked you from that very first treat.” 

Jazz felt his dermas stretch into a smile. “Ya only like me for my baking.”

“It is a perk.” The Praxian closed the distance between them. “May I kiss you?”

“Please.”

Prowl tasted sweet.


	6. Hearing the Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz finds hope in the ruins of Praxus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: More fluff?  
> Jazz-muse: Yes, and this *holds up transformer-sized sparkly sign that reads: Fall of Praxus*  
> Me: WHO GAVE YOU ART SUPPLIES?!  
> *Prowl-muse slinks off into the shadows*

The klaxons blared in the middle of Beta shift. It was nothing new to the residents of the Iaconi Autobot base. Jazz subspaced his half-drunk ration and swiftly made his way to the command center.

“Wha’s th’ situ-?”

He cut himself off with a gasp as he caught sight of the main screen.

Praxus was burning. Decepticon bombers swept back and forth across the city. Buildings blew up, fires raged and highways fell. 

No. No, no, no. Nonononononono!

Something screeched and an explosion rocked the Helix Gardens, shattering crystal into dust.

Jazz was tangentially aware that Optimus was coming towards him, face a mask of concern, but all he could see was the destruction of his once-home. The place of his most treasured memories. The place that was supposed to be Neutral and untouchable by war. The place where he’d left his lover to be safe from the conflict. 

Another blast decimated the Enforcer headquarters.

Jazz fell to his knees screaming denials from the primordial depths of his spark.

 

The Polyhexian demanded to be part of the search and rescue efforts and Optimus didn’t have the spark to deny him. Not after his breakdown in the command center. He had to mute his vocalizer to keep the keen that wanted to escape at bay as he and the other Autobots searched the smoking ruins for survivors. Very few had been found.

He and several others were carefully picking their way through the shattered remains of the Helix Gardens. Jazz sorrowfully followed the familiar paths made alien by destruction, stopping short at the sight of one particular fragmented crystal structure. He crouched in the debris and very gently picked up a cracked opalescent shard.

Bumblebee cautiously stepped closer. “Jazz?”

Jazz bowed his helm and offlined his optics. “Th’ mech I love proposed t’ me under this crystal tree.”

“...I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were bonded.”

“We weren’t. He proposed an’ then th’ war broke out. I joined th’ Autobots to try to keep him safe. He… didn’t take it well. Ya know how militantly Neutral Praxus… was. Th’ last things we said t’ each other… weren’t pleasant. Bu’ I thought it was worth it, knowin’ he was safe, even if he hated me.”

Jazz clutched the shard to his chestplates, sob rising to his dermas.

“Bu’ it doesn’t matter now b’cause he’s gone an’ I didn’t… I didn’t even get t’ say goodbye or tell him tha’ I still love him.”

“Jazz…” Bumblebee whispered sadly not knowing what else to say. Mournful silence fell over the searchers.

The Polyhexian’s helm suddenly shot up, visor bright. “Do ya hear tha’?”

Bumblebee took a startled step back. “Hear what?”

“Quiet! Everybot freeze.” Jazz snapped. To their credit, all the searchers in the vicinity did as he ordered. He tilted his helm, dialling up his audials to maximum.

There! There it was again. A soft sloshing shuffle and a hitch that sounded like small vents.

He got up, unconsciously subspacing the crystal shard, and turned on his stealth mods to minimize the sound of his own movements. 

Where? Where was it? Make noise again. Come on. Another sound. Come on, please.

Slosh. Rustle. Shift.

Jazz stalked, paused, listened. Circled back. Abruptly he stopped and dropped down to his servos and knees in front of a drain the garden had used to get rid of excess growth material. In the gloom of the heavily reinforced drain pipe Jazz saw the dim glow of two tiny cerulean optics. He upped the brightness of his visor bringing into focus a Praxian youngling half submerged in liquid growth material. 

“Hey there, bitlit.” He whispered, voice trembling with relief. 

The mechling skittered back a couple of feet.

“Don’t be scared,” he soothed. “It’s okay. Ya have no idea how glad I am t’ see ya. Are ya hurt?”

The little sensor panels on his back waved and flicked erratically. Jazz recognized the motions from vorns of learning wing-cant from his Praxian partner.

_Talk, hurt. Call til no voice. Big fire. Loud. Scary/terrible purple. Creators say hide. Rumbles. Shaking. Quiet. Then sound. Blue visor friend?_

“It’s okay, bitlit. Th’ bad mechs are gone now. I’m here t’ help you and I’ll be your friend if you want.”

_Surprise. Happy. Not kin understand wing-cant?_

Jazz offered the mechling a smile. “Yeah, I can understand ya. I used t’ live here. What’s yar name?”

_Electric-run-of-words. B-L-U-E-S-T-R-E-A-K._

“Bluestreak. Nice to meet you.” He balanced himself on his knees and put his two servos together at the base of his thumbs, palms facing the youngling. He twitched and fanned them in the specific way he’d been taught. “My name is Jazz.” _Dancing-the-melody. J-A-Z-Z._

Bluestreak copied the hand motions with his doorwings. 

_Dancing-the-melody. J-A-Z-Z. Friend/kin? Keep away bad/purple/loud?_

“I promise I’ll keep you safe.” Jazz vowed. He dipped and fluttered his hands. _Friend/kin. Protect Electric-run-of-words. Spark oath._

Bluestreak brightened at the spoken and unspoken promise. Then he slowly crawled out of the pipe and into Jazz’s waiting arms. As Jazz stood he heard several excited murmurs from the bots around him and somebot putting in an elated call to the rescue unit’s temporary base reporting their young survivor. Bluestreak looked around at the other bots curiously and then curled up against Jazz’s chestplates laying his helm on the Polyhexian’s shoulder strut.

_Tired. Hungry. Pretties gone/lost. Creators gone/lost/forever/sad_

Jazz swallowed back a whine of static and reset his vocalizer. “We’ll try to find your creators, bitlit. Meanwhile, I think we can find some energon and a berth for you. How does that sound?”

_Dancing-the-melody stay?_

“Of course, bitlit, I’ll stay with you.”

 

Bluestreak fell into recharge in Jazz’s arms on the transport to the rescue unit’s base. He whimpered any time somebot tried to remove him, so Jazz just leaned back in his seat and glared at the next mech who tried. The visored mech ran a gentle servo between the miniscule doorwings that twitched and moved even in recharge.

Disembarking caused the little one to wake. He shied away from the erratic movements of bots running here and there and the sounds of pain from injured mechs, tucking his helm into Jazz’s neck. Jazz murmured soothing words paying no mind to the nubby chevron poking his throat cables. 

Ratchet was waiting for them in the makeshift infirmary with a scanner and a cube of low-grade. His normal grumpy attitude was subdued. That, more than anything, was a good indicator of how fragged-up everything was. 

“Up onto the berth with him.” Ratchet said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Bumblebee said he can’t talk because his vocalizer is damaged?”

“Oh he’s been plenty chatty,” Jazz said with a reassuring smile to the clingy Praxian as he set him on the medical berth. He offered his servo for the nervous mechling to hold. “We’ve been communicating with wing-cant. But yeah, looks like he may have shorted it out.”

“...I see.” Ratchet turned his attention to the youngling. “Alright, little mech, My name is Ratchet. I’m a medic. I’m going to scan you now. It won’t hurt. Then we’ll see about getting your vocalizer fixed.

Bluestreak turned his optics to Jazz, doorwings twitching.

_No wing-cant name? R-A-T-C-H-E-T. Medic fix hurt?_

“Ratchet’s th’ best. He’ll fix ya right up.” Jazz felt a grin take over his dermas and put his servos together again. Bluestreak let go of the one he was clutching, watching avidly. _Suffers-no-sass. R-A-T-C-H-E-T. Wing-cant name secret. Dancing-the-melody knows wing-cant. Makes wing-cant names for others._

Bluestreak smiled for the first time, laughing silently with corresponding “doorwing giggles”.

“Stop wiggling.” Ratchet groused. “I’m almost done.” He took out a tiny chip and showed it to the youngling. “This is a medical patch, it will make your vocalizer stop hurting. I need to put it in your oral medical port, so open your mouth.” With a glance at Jazz, who gave him an encouraging nod, the mechling did so and Ratchet put the chip into the medical port under Bluestreak’s glossa. The youngling made a face at the taste. “I know,” Ratchet said with a small chuckle.

_Suffers-no-sass good wing-cant name._ Bluestreak fluttered.

_Yes/amused._ Jazz answered.

“Okay, youngling,” Ratchet said, “besides the vocalizer, you’re quite healthy, thank Primus. Drink this.” He handed the mechling the cube of fuel. He turned to Jazz. “We don’t have the correct sized parts for his vocalizer here so we’ll have to wait until we get back to Iacon to fix it. Before you got here, they commed me to let me know they found a small group of survivors that managed to get underground. So, I have other patients coming in. There’s no reason to keep him stuck in here, why don’t you take him to where they’ve set up the bunks.”

Jazz commed over a private channel. :Ratch, ‘ave there been any other survivors brought in from th’ area around th’ Helix Gardens? Maybe we can try an’ find the lil’’ guy’s creators.:

:No. I’m sorry, Jazz.:

Jazz hid his grimace and instead turned a bright smile to his new charge. “Hear tha’, bitlit? We get t’ take a trip t’ Iacon. Bu’ first, let’s get some recharge. I dunno abou’ ya, bu’ I’m beat.”

_Okay/tired._ Bluestreak reached up his arms in the universal youngling language of ‘pick me up’. Jazz had just gotten him settled on his hip when the infirmary doors opened. An Autobot scout led four scuffed and dirty Praxians through the entry. Jazz’s world narrowed to the mech at the front of the group. Scratched white plating with marred Enforcer decals. Icy blue optics and a regal red chevron on soot smudged white faceplates. Jazz’s spark leapt in it’s casing even as his fuel pump stuttered with a sudden shock of nervous anticipation.

The mech stopped in his tracks making the others behind him stop short with surprised exclamations.

“Jazz? Is that really you?” Doorwings flared. _Surprise/awe_

Jazz could feel himself trembling. Bluestreak looked up at him with concerned little optics.

“Prowl.” Jazz whispered into the abruptly silent room. Relief, hope, melancholy and pain mixed in his voice. “Ya’re alive.” A sob escaped his dermas. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know they were goin’ t’ attack. I’m sorry. I’m sor-”

Prowl crossed the room to him in five strides. Caught Jazz’s face between his servos and proceeded to kiss the living slag out of him. He then wrapped him up in an embrace, youngling and all. Bluestreak doorwings waggled comically in surprise. Prowl spoke, dermas pressed against an audial horn. 

“My Jazz.” _Beloved Dancing-the-melody. Mate. Found._

“Prowl?”

“I was sure I was going to be deactivated and the only thing I had on my processors was my regret of how I let my idiotic prejudices divide us. I love you, Jazz. I lost you once though my own blindness, I will not lose you again.” _Be mine. Give another chance?_

A minute servo bopping Prowl’s shoulder interrupted the moment. He pulled back from the embrace reluctantly, optics brightening at the youngling held securely in Jazz’s arms.

_Squeeze too tight. Dancing-the-melody mate? Why make sad? Friend/kin. Found and rescued. Spark oath protection. Safe/happy/good. Stranger/unsure. Give name. Electric-run-of-words. B-L-U-E-S-T-R-E-A-K. Curious/suspicion._ Little arms crossed over his chestplates. If he’d been standing on the floor he might have even been tapping a pede.

Jazz chuckled thickly. “Better introduce yarself.”

“My name is Prowl.” _Defender-stalks-from-stealth. P-R-O-W-L. Mate to Dancing-the-melody if accepted._ “I apologize for, ah, ‘squeezing’ you.”

“If you’re not hurt, you three can continue your spark-felt little reunion outside the infirmary so I can work.” Ratchet griped.

Oh good, Ratchet’s mood was improving.

Prowl took it upon himself to remove them from the medic’s domain keeping a servo on the small of Jazz’s back or an arm as they moved through the makeshift base. Though he followed Jazz’s instructions to get to the temporary barracks. 

Jazz sat down on a bottom bunk cradling a, by now, very sleepy Bluestreak.

“We’ll have’ta wait til we get t’ Iacon for a proper wash.” He murmured. Prowl sat next to him. “Um, tha’ is, if ya’re comin’ t’ Iacon.”

Prowl cupped his cheek. “Where you go I will follow. There is nothing left for me here.” _Love. Sorrow/pain._

“I’m so sorry, Prowler. If we had known-”

“I know.” _Certainty. No blame._

There was a drowsy tug on Jazz’s collar fairing. Bluestreak’s optics were dim. _No sad. Together/family/warm. Recharge?_

“Okay Blue.” Jazz said shifting to lay down. Bluestreak snuggled flush against him. The bunk was really only made for a single bot, but Prowl laid down with them. He curled protective arms around them both and drifted into recharge with his doorwings still flickering: _Love. Protect. Spark oath. Always._


	7. An Offer He Can't Refuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is a new Enforcer in Praxus. Who knew that saving a certain sweet-faced youngling from an out-of-control racer would get him an in with the mob he never wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Prowl-muse finally gave me a nudge. So, Mob Boss Prowl. Sorta. Yay.
> 
> Listening suggestion for the end is "Battlestar Sonatica" From the Battlestar Galactica OST

Earning the respect of his Enforcer colleagues in Praxus had been difficult, but Jazz had managed with the grace and adaptability that Polyhexians were known for. He’d come to Praxus on loan from the Polyhex Enforcers to help investigate the new illegal racing circuit that had spread through lower Praxus. Racing itself wasn’t illegal, but doing so outside the approved areas was dangerous and a lot of credits were exchanged under the table at such events. 

To their credit, the Praxian Enforcers had had the problem mostly under control until a new drug had been introduced to the circuit. Noss, when injected into a bot’s systems, gave them both a high and exponentially increased their speed for a short time. It came with the unfortunate side effects of addiction, hyper-aggressiveness and hallucinations. 

The Praxian Enforcers were simply not fast enough to capture a Nossed mech. That was where Jazz came in. Polyhex had a long, celebrated history of racing. As an Enforcer of Polyhex who’d participated in the legal races since he’d been old enough to enter, he was the fastest mech on their roster and he had a helm for racing. So when the call for assistance had come in, he’d been the obvious choice to send. 

It didn’t hurt that he was disarmingly cheerful and easygoing. Those qualities helped him to win over the insular and sometimes uptight Praxians. 

He was now quite good friends with his patrol partner, a no-nonsense femme named Crossfire. They were in charge of the illegal racing investigation and their personalities balanced each other well. She was modded; the fastest Praxian on the force, he was just faster. It had irked her to be partnered with him at first. But after many light-cycles of patrols together, and long night-cycles spent discussing the investigation she’d slowly warmed up to him.

 

They were cruising their normal patrol route when the call came in.

:All available units, we have a Nossed racer heading inbound to Garden Square. Mech appears unstable and extremely dangerous. Immediate backup requested.:

Garden Square was the most influential and heavily populated area in Praxus. A Nossed mech there was going to cause unimaginable amounts of damage to property and bots alike.

Crossfire was quick to answer as they both sped up and turned on their sirens. :Dispatch, officers Crossfire and Jazz, heading to location.:

To him Crossfire said, “Jazz, go, don’t wait for me.”

Jazz revved his engine. “Ya got it. I’ll get ‘em cuffed fo’ ya.”

“Slagger.” she said good-naturedly as he roared away.

Jazz weaved expertly in and out of the ever increasing density of traffic towards the location of the racer. He caught sight of the drugged mech on a ground street as Jazz passed overhead on one of the lower aerial highway. The wailing sirens of the other pursuing Enforcers were too far away to be of any consequence. He was raging with angry snarls of his engine, sideswiping the mechs and femmes he was speeding past. He was careening directly for a crowded crosswalk. The bots had just seen the incoming danger and several were attempting to get out of the way in a panicky rush. Jazz saw a grey and red youngling get shoved and go down. He wasn’t going to make it in time to prevent damage if he didn’t change course. 

With a determined rumble, Jazz gunned his engine and swerved to the edge of the highway. He transformed, vaulting himself off the structure and down onto the back of the Nossed mech. The drugged bot let out a howl. Jazz slammed his servos onto specific points on the mech’s frame and loosed a set of mag pulses into his T-cog causing him to yell in shock as his frame twisted into transforming without his permission.

While the bot was still trying to figure out the confusion of his own shifting parts, Jazz grabbed first one flailing arm and then the other, slapping stasis cuffs on the mech. The racer dropped insensate to the ground.

Jazz vented heavily, opticking the mech to make sure he was down for the count. He sent a comm. to the dispatch.

:Dispatch, this is Officer Jazz, suspect has been caught and restrained with stasis cuffs. Requesting transport.:

:Copy, Officer Jazz. We are sending the transport now.:

Jazz turned his attention to the bystanders and held back a wince at just how close the Nossed mech had come to hurting somebot. The crosswalk was not ten feet from where he stood. The grey youngling was still sprawled on the ground looking up at him with something like awe. It looked like the mech had just gotten some fresh detailing done, though he might need to get a rebuff after his run-in with the ground.

The Polyhexian walked forward and offered a servo.

“Ya alright, young mech?”

The mechling looked confused for a moment at his outstretched servo and then smiled brightly taking it and allowing Jazz to pull him upright.

“Yes! I’m alright. That was really scary. What’s wrong with him? Are you alright? Wow, I’ve never seen anyone move like that except in entertainment vids. How did you do that? Are you an Enforcer? What’s your name?”

“I’m Officer Jazz,” he said, amused by the youngling’s rambling. “Nice wing decals, by th’ way. An’ who do I have th’ pleasure of speakin’ t’?”

Again, there was that split second of confusion before the younglin beamed at him. “Thank you! I’m Bluestreak. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He tapped his fist lightly on his chestplates in a formal greeting complete with dipping doorwings.  
Jazz smiled. The formalities that the Praxians practiced always entertained him. Especially when they came from younglings. He tapped his fist on his own plating in a returned greeting. The youngling looked delighted. 

Jazz then heard Crossfire roar up behind him and transform. “Excuse me fo’ a moment.”

He turned to his partner with a small smile only for it to morph into a confused frown as he took in the almost panicky look she was shooting the mechling. “Wha’s wrong ‘Fire?”

“Nothing!” She said too quickly. “We should get this mech to the station.”

“I already called fo’ a transport, it should be here… now it looks like.”

Sure enough, the transport hovered into view as several more officers finally made it to the scene. They cordoned off the area and began the task of bundling the unconscious mech into the transport.

In the bustling confusion Jazz glanced back over at the youngling to make sure he was alright only to see him being fussed over by two other mechs. They weren’t old enough to be the youngling’s creators. Older siblings, perhaps? No, he’d been in Praxus long enough to recognize that despite similar frames, those mechs were not related. The doorwing language was all off for that. Older friends, maybe.

Bluestreak caught his optics and waved cheerily. Jazz smiled and waved back. Then the three of them melted into the crowd.

“Jazz,” Crossfire said tightly, drawing his attention, “do you know that mechling?”

“Know him?” Jazz asked in bemusement, “Nah, jus’ met him. He was in th’ wrong place at th’ wrong time. Nearly got run over.”

Doorwings that had been tense nearly sagged a foot in relief. “Good thing you got here in time.” She said giving him a wan smile.

“Everythin’ okay?” Jazz asked.

“Yes! Yes, of course. Let’s just get this mech processed and start him on the detox program.”

Jazz wisely let the conversation drop.

 

The previously-Nossed-racer was still recharging off the effects of the system purge detox in a cell the next light-cycle as Jazz and Crossfire were working on the incident report.

A courier came to the front desk of the Enforcer headquarters with an elaborate arrangement of crystalline blooms. Some colored with streaks of opaqueness running through them, others clear as glass, set upon a lit base. It dazzled the optics.

“Huh, looks like somebot has an admirer.” Jazz commented offhandedly before returning his attention to the screen of his console. Crossfire just hummed noncommittally, her focus on her own work.

Jazz’s sensitive audials picked up the cessation of noise that followed the courier as they made their way to to whoever the bouquet was for. It seemed to be nearing... to... his... position…?

The Polyhexian looked up in surprise when the courier stopped by his desk with a smile.

“Officer Jazz?”

“Yes?”

“Delivery for you! These were hand picked today from the Helix Gardens. If you would just ping me with your ID, please.” The mech said offering the glittering arrangement. 

So befuddled was he, that Jazz gave the courier his ID ping without realizing that he did so. The mech placed the arrangement on his desk and a fancy, high-end data pad engraved with a seal on the back in his servo. 

“Have a wonderful cycle, Officer.” The courier said, and then was gone.

Jazz glanced from the crystals to the data pad and back again. “Th’ frag is this…?”

Crossfire had an uncharacteristic look of mischievous glee in her optics “Somebot has an admirer, huh?”

And the Praxian Enforcers, who had all tuned in to their favorite outsider, got the unbridled delight of seeing the normally smooth Jazz stutter like an academy-aged youngling. His EM field teeked with embarrassment.

“I-I don’t. Who would even-? What?!”

Kindly laughter filled the room.

“Well, go on!” Somebot said. “Don’t leave us in suspense. Who are they from?”

Jazz stuck his glossa out at them to more laughter. Immature, yes, but it made him feel better. He turned on the data pad, which then asked for his badge number as an extra security measure. Intrigued, he put it in.

It was an invitation. 

“The Viscount Prowl of the Crystalspire family requests your presence for a private dinner in recognition of your brave actions regarding his ward. The dinner will be held at The Cobalt Lattice on the fifth cycle of the third orn at the beginning of the dark-cycle. This occasion is a wax and polish event. Your company is greatly anticipated. Please show this invitation to the maitre'd when you arrive.” 

_The fifth cycle of the third orn? That’s tomorrow._ Jazz realized

The atmosphere of the room had turned from pleasant to tense. Jazz felt the change in the room and decided not to read aloud the postscript at the bottom that said: _I do hope you enjoy the crystals. They are but a small token of my appreciation._

Jazz looked around the assembled Enforcers in confusion. “Um, somebot wanna clue me in t’ who this mech is?”

Several pairs of optics blinked off and on again. “You… really don’t know who he is?” 

Jazz threw up his arms in an exaggerated shrug.

Crossfire sighed and grumbled as she stood and then bent over her console to look Jazz in the optics. “He’s the Lord of Praxus.”

Jazz tilted his helm. “...I thought Duke Bellicose was th’ Lord of Praxus?”

The other officers started to chime in.

“The Viscount is the head of the criminal underworld of Praxus. Everybot knows it, but noone can, or will, produce proof of it.” 

“He runs basically everything, he’s more of the Lord of Praxus then the Duke is. And he knows it.” 

“He’s extremely dangerous.”

Flabbergasted Jazz tried to ask. “Wha’? Then why would he even-?”

“His ward is the mechling you saved yesterday.” Crossfire cut him off.

“Bluestreak?” Jazz blurted incredulously.

“Yes. And now you’ve gotten his attention.”

“I can jus’... tell him I appreciate it, bu’ there’s no need t’ thank me.”

The room fell into shocked silence for a klik.

“You can’t just brush off the Lord of Praxus.” One of the beat cops said in a horrified whisper.

Jazz frowned. “I didn’ ask t’ be taken out t’ dinner. Especially not fo’ doin’ my job! B’sides The Cobalt Lattice is th’ most expensive restaurant in Praxus. It ain’t my scene. I’ll jus’ send him a message that says thanks, bu’ no thanks… In the nicest possible terms o’ course.”

He examined the invitation, only to realize that there was no rsvp comm number. Oh well, he’d just have to look it up later before he got off shift. He subspaced the invitation and settled back in to finish his report. The other officers slowly drifted away when they realized the show was over for now.

Though every now and then, a bot would wander by and offer unsolicited advice about a polish he should use or to regale him with a story they’d heard about a bot that had slighted the Viscount. Jazz had made a habit of keeping his olfactory out of the politics of Praxus; it wasn’t his business unless it pertained to the case. But the staggering amount of what looked like corruption was beginning to grate on him.

Just when he thought his cycle couldn’t get any weirder, the Chief Enforcer’s voice rang out over the room.

“Jazz, my office. Now.”

He saved the document he was working on and made his way to the Chief Scattershield’s office.

“Sir? Wha’ can I do fo’ ya?”

The older Praxian stood behind his desk. “Come in and sit down, Jazz.”

Perturbed, Jazz did as instructed. Scattershield was known for his yelling. This patient, subdual was putting Jazz on edge. The door shut remotely.

“You are quite the topic of gossip today.”

Jazz reset his vocalizer. “Yes, Sir.”

“Am I to understand that Viscount Prowl has invited you for dinner tomorrow?”

“Um, I don’ intend t’ accept the invitation, boss.”

“You most certainly _will_ accept that invitation, officer.” Scattershield snapped.

Jazz jerked back physically from the near-order, his visor sharpening in annoyance and his EM field flaring with affront.

“Wha?” He deadpanned.

Scattershield sighed, reigning himself back in and held up a servo. “Apologies. I know what this must look like, but you must understand that the Viscount and the Enforcers have an understanding. He respects us and therefore will not stand in our way to dispense justice.”

“Except when it comes to his affairs, right?” Jazz said acidly, still radiating displeasure.

“Even then.” The chief said unexpectedly. At Jazz’s surprised look he added, “As I said, we have an understanding.”

“Humph. A mob boss with a sense o’ justice.”

“Please don’t call him that to his face.” Scattershield sighed.

“I still didn’ agree t’ go!”

“Jazz, I guarantee that all he is doing is thanking you for saving Bluestreak’s life.”

“Th’ crystals were enough!”

“Jazz… please.”

The visored mech said nothing for a while and then huffed out a vent. “Fine. I’ll go t’ th’ fancy dinner.”

Scattershield nodded. “Thank you. I’m sending you the name of a salon in the Resin District. Take tomorrow off and get a full repaint, polish and wax. Tell them it is for a state dinner and to charge it to the Enforcer account. I want you to represent the Enforcers in style.”

Jazz suppressed the urge to give his superior a rude Polyhexian gesture. And gritted out, “Yes, Sir.”

It was almost comical to see the scramble of officers that were pretending to be suddenly absorbed in other things as they scattered from the abruptly opened door. Gossipy slaggers.

Thankfully, Crossfire said nothing. Only gave him a sympathetic look.

Just as he stood to leave for the end of his shift she put a servo on his arm and murmured. “Be careful.”

He just nodded and left.

 

Annoyed as he was at being forced into the situation, he had to admit that the mechs at the salon had certainly known what they were doing. His plating shone; he hadn’t been this shiny even at his own graduation ceremony. He was pretty sure they’d covertly added glitter dust to his paint. They’d removed debris from under his armor that he hadn’t even realized were causing him discomfort. His cables felt wonderfully loose from the added message. He hadn’t dared look at the full bill, but maybe it would be worth it to schedule a spa day once an orn or so. 

Mechs and femmes around him were certainly noticing the effect. He’d gotten more than one appreciative look accompanied by a flirty doorwing wiggle. He supposed that to most Praxians he must look quite exotic. 

Earlier that cycle before his spa appointment had been quite productive, too. He’d run some errands that had been on his list and casually cruised by a known gathering spot for illegal racers. He’d been both relieved and disappointed when it proved empty. Citing a high speed chase would have been a good enough excuse to get out of the dinner, right? He had one more stop to make, back at his apartment, before he had to leave for this weird dinner date.

He offloaded the energon he’d bought from the market and the “new” data pads he’d bought from the second-hand store out of his subspace.

There was a single, small box on the vanity in his washracks and he reverently opened it. In it was a single audial horn adornment that his carrier had made for him. Delicate silver filigree interspersed tastefully with glittering blue gems. It was defiantly Polyhexian in design. “For luck,” his carrier had told him. 

He certainly felt like he'd need the luck tonight.

Jazz carefully affixed the magnetic clasps and spared himself a glance in the mirror. He vented out a sigh.

“Alright, mech, let’s do this.”

He made it to The Cobalt Lattice just as the dark-cycle began. The maitre’d gave him a suspicious look when he entered, however the expression was quickly swept off the mech’s face when he presented the seal engraved data pad containing his invitation.

“Oh! You’re Officer Jazz. Yes, please come this way. The Viscount has reserved the balcony level for your dinner.”

“Um, thank ya.”

“Of course, Sir!”

Truly, Jazz didn’t know how to feel about the deference being shown to him, and he had a feeling that it was only going to get more confusing as the evening progressed.

The maitre’d led him past several rooms full of elegant furnishings and chandeliers. Each room hosted urbane occupants eating and drinking the most outlandish looking energon that Jazz had ever seen. And it occurred to him that he was possible about to be doing the same. Up a sparkling staircase, and through a mezzanine level, the mech finally stopped at a curtained doorway.

“Here you are, Sir.” The mech said. “Just up the stairs is the balcony level. Please enjoy!”

Then Jazz was ushered through the curtains that were then closed behind him. He slowly walked up another glittering staircase.

He didn’t really know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what he saw. The room was artistically dimmed and enclosed by a glass dome through which he could see a 360 degree view of Praxus, including the lit-from-within Helix Gardens. Once he wrenched his gaze away from the skyline, he took in the other details of the room. 

In the center of the room was a flowing energon fountain. To one side was an orchestra pit complete with a full-sized synth, it was empty along with the scattered tables and chairs. It really brought home the point to Jazz in that moment just how much influence this mech had. 

He had, on short notice, reserved an entire floor of the most expensive restaurant in Praxus to host what amounted to a thank-you dinner.

Jazz might have turned tail at that moment, but he finally spotted a table with a lit crystal lamp and a seated shadowed figure. He steeled his nerves and approached. 

“Good evening.” A voice intoned from the darkness.

“Good evenin’. Thank ya fo’ th’ invitation.” Jazz remembered his manners.

“Please have a seat. I took the liberty of ordering for us. I hope you do not mind.”

Jazz sat. “I… I don’ mind. I’d probably get confused by th’ menu anyway.” He admitted a with a little self-depreciation.

The Viscount gave a soft humming laugh and Jazz’s visor finally adjusted to the dim lighting.

The mech was strangely normal-looking. Oh, he was definitely handsome, no doubt, but Jazz felt like he could have passed him on a patrol through Garden Square and not have given him a second look. He had a classically Praxian chevron in a ruby color (hadn’t that been the color of Bluestreak’s chevron?), and elegantly swept back doorwings. He was wearing a fashionable half-circle cape made out of a fine mesh clasped to his right shoulder pauldron. But then Jazz got to his optics and stalled. Those optics were filled with a frightening intelligence. Piercing and searching. 

Dangerous indeed as his co-worker had said.

There were already two glasses filled with a gently fizzing silvery-colored energon and after a moment of indecision Jazz took up his glass.

The Viscount gave him an amused look. “You are uncomfortable.”

Jazz took a very small sip of the fizzy drink. It was high grade. “Jus’ not used to th’ fancy digs. Tha’s all.”

The Praxian delicately picked up his own glass. “I see. It was not my intention to alienate you. But I knew not of another way to show my gratitude. My ward is the most important mech in my life; the creation I was never able to have.”

“I understand. I know my carrier woul’ ‘ave done everythin’ in his power t’ keep me safe. It’s jus’... um, th’ crystals woul’ ‘ave been enough.”

The mech quirked an inscrutable smile. “Did you like them?”

“Yes, I did.” Jazz admitted.

The smile warmed. The Viscount pressed a button on the edge of the table. At Jazz’s confused look he explained, “This lets the mechs in the kitchen know when we are ready for our next course.”

“Ah.” Jazz said intelligently. “An’ wha’ did ya order fo’ us?” _And just how many courses am I going to have to get through?_

“I chose the Spectrum Dinner. Seven courses of their finest fare.”

_Fragging Pit. Okay, I can do this._

Two servers and another mech with a decal denoting his position as head chef on his chestplates appeared from curtained entryway tucked behind the main staircase. 

“Good evening, Sirs.” The chef said brightly. “For your appetizer course, we have prepared a small array of rust sticks. Please enjoy.”

A plate of fanned rust stick was placed in front of each of them along with a small glass of ruby-colored energon. The servers and chef bowed and then left. Jazz had only ever seen the mass produced rust sticks that were sold in a box, these were far more fancy in varied shades of red. He covertly opticked the Viscount, relieved when the mech forwent any of the fancy cutlery and picked up a rust stick with his digits. Jazz followed his lead and had to offline his visor for a moment as delicate flavors danced across his glossa when he bit down. When his visual center came back online, he realized the Viscount was watching him. Jazz looked away quickly, pretending to be very interested in his food.

“So, tell me, Officer, how it is you came to be in Praxus.”

Jazz forced himself to make optic contact again quickly swallowing down the rust stick in his mouth. “Jus’ Jazz is fine.”

“Jazz, then.”

And that might have been a mistake. His name suddenly seemed alarmingly intimate as it rolled off the mech’s glossa in the Praxian lilt.

Jazz reset his vocalizer. “I’m on loan t’ the Praxus Enforcers t’ help crack down on th’ illegal racin’ rings.”

“Adding your speed and expertise, then?”

“I s’pose so. They didn’t need th’ help ‘til th’ drugs showed up.”

The Viscounts optics sharpened keenly. “I suppose those drugs are to blame for the actions taken by the mech that nearly ran my ward down.”

Jazz saw no reason to lie to him. After all, Nos has become something of common knowledge. “Yes, and th’ number of users is only increasin’.”

“I find the drug trade to be quite detestable. I do hope you are able to find the source of this vile infection that is plaguing my city.”

“We’re gettin’ closer. We ‘ave some solid leads, bu’ I’m not at liberty t’ discuss any more abou’ th’ case.”

That seemed to satisfy the Viscount and he called for the next course as they finished up the rust sticks and the lightly sweetened red energon. A soup course came next. They were served a light copper broth and an acidic energon colored a distressing neon orange.

“So, how is your ward? There was no lastin’ damage, I hope?” Jazz asked bringing a spoonful of the broth to his dermas (after subtly pinpointing the spoon the Viscount had chosen for the course).

The mech’s doorwings flared in what Jazz had come to recognize from several orns of being around Praxians as “proud creator preen”. 

“Bluestreak is quite well. Just a few scrapes, but nothing a little polish couldn’t fix. His guardians were replaced, of course. Those other mechs were derelict in their duties to keep him safe, allowing him to walk about unsupervised while they visited the shops.   
Thankfully, you were there to keep him from coming to harm.”

Jazz could only wonder what he meant by “replaced”.

A salad course of chipped yellow sulfur accompanied by a glass of golden, sour energon came next. By now, Jazz had picked up on the theme of the dinner and was not surprised that the next course, a “palate cleanser” course, consisted of thin green jasper wafers and a base energon that had been colored a deep emerald. He tried to keep up polite small talk, but it sounded stilted even to his own audials.

The fifth course threw him for a loop. The chef presented each of them with a dark blue acid-dwelling aquatic creature that had been boiled until it’s outer shell had become hard and it’s innards had become gelatin-like. It had then been split down the middle and they were apparently supposed to eat the gel-like insides out of the shell like some sort of primitive bowl. It was a delicacy the upper class were all excited about. It was a delicacy that Jazz wanted no part of. 

As he was looking down at his poor critter and attempting to figure out how to politely decline eating it, the Viscount spoke up unexpectedly,

“Your reactions tonight are stemming from more than just social awkwardness, are they not? I take it your co-workers may have, hum… _warned_ you about me?”

Jazz froze for half a klik.

“I don’ know wha’ yar talkin’ abou’.”

Another one of those humming laughs floated across the table. “There’s no need to play coy.”

Jazz stalled for time by sipping the drink that came with the course, another acidic blend, this time in a light blue.

“I was told ya are very influential.” He settled on.

“Hmm, that is very diplomatic.” The Viscount said with a small almost-smirk. “I am surprised you had not heard of me before.”

And just how did he know that? His processor yelled silently about mecha-moles in the department.

“Tha’s probably a good thing. The only names I know are other officers an’ mechs under investigation.”

Jazz bravely poked the gel in the shell on his plate with his fork.

“I take it you did not know who Bluestreak was either.” Those optics sharpened again, this time with a cold edge to them. “So my question for you is: Would you have saved him if you had known who he was?”

It suddenly felt like the temperature in the room dropped about 10 degrees.

“Yes.” Jazz said unhesitatingly, meeting the cold optics with his own.

The Praxian tilted his helm with a curiously penetrating stare, doorwings trained on him. “You are speaking the truth.”

“My job is t’ protect th’ people of this city. Tha’ includes you an’ your ward.” _Even if I might not like what extracurricular activities you get up to._

The chilly atmosphere vanished as the Viscount relaxed back into his chair. Jazz suddenly felt as if he passed some sort of massive test.

“You really should try some of the sapphire crab. I promise that despite the off-putting presentation, it is quite delicious.”

Jazz vented softly and ventured a mouthful. Okay, so it was kinda tasty. He caught sight of a little dead crabby eye staring at him accusingly. Nope. Not his jam.

Thankfully the Viscount didn’t seem to mind his uncultured unappreciation of the dish. Merely sending off for the next course with something like an understanding smile.

The sixth course, and thank Primus they were finally getting towards the end, was a block of frozen purple fluorite that the chef brought and served at the table. He took a tiny hammer and struck certain points in the block with a musical ringing that seemed to echo against the glass roof. With one last strike the block broke in half to showcase the interior where they had somehow used some sort of acidic liquid to carve out a perfect replica of the Praxian seal.

Jazz couldn’t help himself and clapped gleefully at the end of the small show. For a moment he thought he might have made a breach of etiquette, but the chef just grinned and made a short bow.

As they tucked into the crystalline pieces with a glittering lavender drink, the Viscount surprised him again, by starting a conversation.

“Your audial adornment is quite stunning. Might I inquire as to where you purchase it and why you only wear one?”

Jazz smiled absently as he touched the adornment. “It’s a Polyhex tradition… well, technically two of ‘em. Yar creators make ya a charm t’ wear when ya leave home. For luck. My carrier made this fo’ me when I left home t’ become an official Enforcer. An’ Polyhexians wear one or two horn adornments dependin’ on their relationship status. I only wear one t’ signify tha’ I’m single. Ya wear two o’ ‘em t’ let the mechs ‘round ya know yar taken. Sometimes a mech tha' wants t' court ya will 'ave one made for ya.”

“Ah, that’s fascinating. And have you found any, shall we say, prospects in Praxus?”

Jazz shook his helm, “I’ve been too busy with th’ case t’ really be thinkin’ abou’ tha’.”

“That’s a shame. You’re very attractive. Any mech would be lucky to have your attention.”

A stuttered laugh escaped his dermas. “Oh, well, thank ya.”

Their conversation wandered from there. Uncomplicated small talk that wove itself effortlessly in the dim room with the lights of Praxus around them. It was easy to forget for a while that he was so out of his element he may as well have been on the second moon. 

When they called for the dessert course they had begun talking about Jazz’s first love: music. They debated the pros and cons of the most recent musical movement that combined a classical style with a modern sound as they nibbled on glowing white phosphorous and drank sweetened white energon.

“If I hadn’ b’come an Enforcer, I’d probably be in an orchestra somewhere.” Jazz admitted a little wistfully.

“What made you decide to become an Enforcer?”

The visored mech smiled sadly. “When I was little, my sparker got killed fo’ bein’ in th’ wrong place at th’ wrong time. Th’ Enforcer tha’ got put in charge of his case made sure tha’ me an’ my carrier were taken care of. Came t’ check on us an’ kept us from losin’ hope when we thought his killer would get away with it. The mech inspired me. An’ I wanted t’ be that mech fo’ somebot else.”

“That is a very noble pursuit. And I am sorry for your loss.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Silence reigned for a few moments and then the Viscount asked softly,

“Do you still play?”

Jazz brightened. “Some, when I can get my servos on an instrument.”

The Praxian smiled, “Well, there is a synth right across the room. Would you indulge me?”

The visored mech shot a half giddy, half worried look at the synth. “Are we allowed?”

“Go ahead.”

Jazz walked over to the magnificent instrument that had been catching his optics off and on the whole night. He reverently touched the rich material it was made of and seated himself at the keyboard. He began to play a lilting sonata his carrier had taught him long ago. It drifted like a fleck of shaved metal, caught in the wind, dancing gracefully. So fragile. Emotive. Sadness and hope. He turned off his visor. Lost himself to the music for a time.

When the song ended, it was like he came out of a trance. He looked over at the Viscount who seemed to be looking at him through his flute of energon.

“Exquisite.” The Viscount breathed.

And suddenly reality came crashing back.

He… he should leave.

Jazz checked his chronometer, relieved that it was late enough to use as an excuse.

“I beg yar pardon, Viscount Prowl, but it’s gotten late and I ‘ave an early shift tomorrow. I’m afraid I need t’ end our evening ‘ere.”

“... I understand.”

Jazz stood, ready to make his escape. “Thank ya for t’night. It was wonderful.” _And confusing, and amazing, and uncomfortable, and incredible._

The Viscount was suddenly standing by his side. Jazz hadn’t even heard the mech move! He gently grasped Jazz’s servo and brought it to his dermas.

“Tonight was nothing more than what you deserved. Thank you for sharing my company. Perhaps we might cross paths again at a later date.”

“Perhaps…” Jazz echoed weakly. 

And then the Viscount escorted him down and out through the building causing a stir of whispers in their wake.

Jazz drove away casually until the building and the Viscount were out of sight and then he sped home. After carefully putting away his horn adornment he flopped on his berth. Thank Primus that was over with.

 

A courier came to the Enforcer headquarters a few cycles later and presented him with a box that contained an audial horn adornment and a familiar, fancy engraved data pad. His whole department bemusedly played witness to his impressively verbose swear-cabulary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on "Project Fulcrum", promise! The chapter was giving me problems so I took a small break to write this. Gonna get back to it now!


	8. Harpy to meet you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz didn't mean to pick up a monster at the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the start of Halloween season, I re-watched the horror compilation "VHS" and remembered how much the first little story intrigued me. So here is a little monster AU based on it. I may do a few more monster romps before the 31st... Maybe.

The two mechs Jazz had joined for a night on the town were already well on their way to being overcharged by the time he showed up at their dorm. Dasher and Piedmont weren’t mechs he normally hung out with, but they had invited him along because he’d been part of their group for the last big project of Anthropology 101. With his help they’d passed the class, thus they had decided that he was worthy of joining them on their celebratory bar hop/ one night stand adventure.

Jazz wasn’t into the one-night-stand thing, especially now that he was in the final stretch of his stint at the Academy. He’d messed around a bit the first vorns he’d been enrolled, but indiscriminate interfacing had lost its charm after a while. 

The Praxian-looking mech that he and his “friends” had picked up along with the drunken, giggly femmes was… a bit strange. His movements and mannerisms were just a bit off, as if the mech was on some sort of stim. Oh, he was pretty, that was for sure; elegant swept back sensor panels and white, shiny plating with black and red accents. A red chevron framed his brow fetchingly. His voice, when he spoke at all, had an interesting, exotic inflection. It _sounded _Praxian, but then again… Jazz wasn’t sure.__

____

Still, he was intriguing. Piedmont had already tried to smooth-talk the mech and had gotten awkward, stilted answers for his efforts. He’d quickly abandoned the chitchat and joined Dasher for easier pickings. And while the other two mechs chatted up the femmes, Jazz took it upon himself to attempt a conversation with the unusual white mech. He wasn’t looking for a berth mate for the night (the maybe-a-Praxian didn’t seem to be either), but talking with him would save Jazz from having to watch Dasher and Piedmont lay down increasingly cheesy pick up lines. Also, Jazz was curious.

____

He slid onto the seat next to the mech at the bar. “Hey, mech, what’s your name? I’m Jazz.”

____

The doorwinged mech studied him for a few moments with piercing optics before answering, “I am called Prowl.”

____

“Nice t’ meet you,” Jazz said with an easy smile. Maybe the mech was just shy. “So, I’m just wonderin’, are ya from Praxus? Or maybe one of the sub-cities? Ya look Praxian.”

____

The mech tilted his helm in a way that reminded Jazz of one of Soundwave’s avian cassettes. “Not Praxus, but near. Higher in the mountains.”

____

“Oh? Tha’s cool. I’m from Polyhex.”

____

“Yes, you smell of the Rust Sea.”

____

Jazz’s audial horns twitched uncomfortably. “Um, sorry, I guess?”

____

Prowl’s doorwings dipped. “No. It it a good smell.”

____

“Thanks, then… I think. But how could you smell tha’? I haven’t been home in orns.”

____

Prowl ran slightly clawed digits over the countertop with a soft _scritch-scritch_ sound. “It is woven in the scent of you. You must have swum in the sea every cycle as a youngling, like an oil-fish.”

____

“Just about, yeah.” Jazz took a sip of his drink to cover the fact that the mech was starting to weird him out.

____

Dasher suddenly draped an arm over Jazz’s shoulder startling him. “Hey Jazzy! I just got alla us a faaaancy suite over at The Kyanite. Us and th’ femmes wanna head over now. You and your _friend_ should come too.” The leer was apparent from Dasher’s field even if Jazz couldn’t see it on his face.

____

Jazz fumbled. “Um, I don’ know if-”

____

“I would like to accompany you.” Prowl said simply.

____

Dasher jostled him. “Alright, alright! Looks like you’re gettin’ lucky tonight, hu Jazzy?”

____

The visored mech let his annoyance buzz through his field and shrugged the mech’s arm off. “Knock it off, mech.”

____

Dasher just laughed and allowed himself to be shoved back in the direction of the light blue femme that he’d been talking to. He swung his arm around her. She tittered, swaying.

____

Jazz slid off his stool with a sigh and beckoned to Prowl. “Come on, or they’ll leave us behind.”

____

The doorwinged mech stood silently and followed.

____

Jazz tailed behind the overcharged mechs and femmes as they stumbled down the pedestrian walk, only the slightest buzz of energy from the one cube of high-grade he’d consumed. It was a little amusing watching them attempt to navigate. Thankfully, The Kyanite wasn’t far and they seemed to be having too much fun drunkenly feeling each other up in root-mode, so nobot was tempted to drive.

____

Jazz jumped a little when he felt the warm slide of Prowl’s servo ghost down his arm. He looked at the white mech, only just now realizing that the other was taller than him. Prowl leaned his helm near Jazz’s audial horn and murmured,

____

“I like you, little fish.”

____

An uncertain shudder ran down Jazz’s spinal strut.

____

“I, um, I like you too?” Jazz said.

____

That, apparently, was the right thing to say because the edge of Prowl’s mouth quirked up into a very small smile. A soft, pleased-sounding trill emerged from his vocalizer. And… wait, were his optics changing color? The edges bleeding from blue to-

____

“Here we are!” Dasher announced grandly, gesturing in a way that made him nearly fall over. The femmes giggled.

____

Jazz tore his gaze away from the white mech. He’d forgotten they’d been walking. The Kyanite stood gleaming and pearlescent under the night lights of the city. Jazz risked a quick glance at the white mech, but his optics looked normal. Maybe the high-grade had affected Jazz’s processors more than he’d thought.

____

The night manager in the hotel just rolled his optics as Dasher checked them in while attempting to look sober and failing miserably. Jazz shot the manager a commiserating look while simultaneously trying to shake off the prickling sensation of Prowl’s vents wafting gently over the back of his neck plating.

____

They had all barely made it through the doors of the suite before Dasher was goading his drunk femme into the lavish berthroom. Piedmont and his squeeze for the night didn’t even make it that far, falling over each other in a sprawled tangle of moaning limbs on the nearest couch.

____

Jazz just sighed, shutting the door and skirting around the couch to another set of doors that led to a balcony. Prowl shadowed him and he shut the doors to the balcony behind them so they didn’t have to listen to the enthusiastic couples. He went to stand at the edge, leaning comfortably on the railing. He looked out over the lit city. Prowl came to stand beside him. They stood in silence for a while. He looked over at Prowl and found the mech staring at him with his helm tilted in that avian way. 

____

"You are not afraid of heights even though you come from the sea, little fish?” Prowl asked, in that strange lilt of his.

____

What was with the nickname?

____

“Nah,” Jazz said. “Heights never bothered me.”

____

Prowl’s sensor panels gave a happy flick.

____

Somebot’s scream of completion made it through the thick glass to the outside. Jazz winced.

____

“Sorry abou’ that. I actually thought they might, ya know, socialize before they started tappin’ bumpers.”

____

“I am not bothered by their actions.” Prowl said. “If you wished, I would not be adverse to copulating with you.”

____

Jazz sputtered for a klik. “I, um, I mean, I don’ think… Um, I mean ya’re real handsome, but I’m not lookin’ t’... I don’ really do th’ whole one-night stand thing.”

____

Prowl let out another one of those pleased-sounding trills. “You are looking for a mate.”

____

“Uh, well, eventually, yeah?”

____

The doorwinged mech loomed over him, half trapping him against the balcony railing. “I am also searching for a mate. I like you. You smell right.”

____

“Th-thanks?”

____

Prowl _coo-chirped_. “You will be happy in my nest.”

____

Primus, whatever stim the mech was on was still going strong. Jazz was going to have to be the responsible one here. He gently pushed the white mech back.

____

“Hey, I wouldn’ mind goin’ on a couple dates, but let’s wait t’ plan those until ya’re sober, okay?”

____

Prowl pushed back, placing a servo on Jazz chestplates. Claws painlessly _scritch-scritched_ on his armor. “I like you.” he said nearly soundlessly. His optics bore into Jazz’s visor, uncomfortably intense.

____

Jazz swallowed nervously and pulled away. Time to go back inside. He’d take the awkward after-interfacing atmosphere to this weird drugged courtship. Maybe the stim was bringing out some deep-seeded flight coding? Most Praxians were Seeker-kin after all. He fumbled with the handles of the doors and re-entered the suite.

____

Piedmont and his femme were most definitely passed out on the couch. Jazz shakily vented in. He’d offer the other couch to Prowl and take the floor. Hopefully, whatever drug was flowing through the white mech’s lines would be cleared by morning and they could have a normal conversation.

____

He heard a strange garbled sound from the balcony behind him and turned in concern. Prowl was doubled over. He made the sound again. He looked like he was in pain. Jazz rushed towards him, thinking that whatever the mech had imbibed was giving him a bad reaction, only to freeze when a frightening rumbling scraping noise came out of Prowl’s vocalizer. Deep, unsettling clicks vibrated out of the mech.

____

Prowl’s head raised. His optics locked onto Jazz. Blue melting away to a brilliant gold. Armor flipped and morphed. His pedes lengthened and split into monstrous taloned extremities. His knees reversed with a sickening crunch. From his arms, sail-like membranes extended, a wave of titanium feathers quickly growing thick over top of them. More of those feathers sprouted over his helm, down his back and over his sensor panels. Transformation complete, Prowl uncurled to his full height with a threatening hiss. His wings unfurled fully, sensor panels arched over his shoulders like a second set of small wings.

____

One tiny part of Jazz’s processor matched what he was seeing with tales that he had read in his Ancient Mythology class, the rest of it was taken up with thoughts of _holyPrimusgiantclawsI’mgonnadie_. Jazz did what any rational Cybertronian would do when faced with a mythological impossibility and screamed while trying to shut the balcony doors.

____

Piedmont and the femme both woke at the noise, jerking upright just in time to see Jazz stumble back and fall as the glass doors shattered from a powerful blow of white feathered wings. Prowl released an angry sounding shriek and tried to force his way through the broken doors.

____

“Holy fragging pit!” Piedmont yelled while the femme let out a screech of terror

____

Jazz scramble-crawled as fast as he could across the room and pressed his back to the wall. Prowl wrenched the warped doorframes out of his way. Piedmont flailed, pushing the femme out of his way and tried to run. Prowl was on him in a single leap, biting into his plating with sharp fangs. His scream ended in a grotesque sounding gurgle. The femme screeched again. The feathered mech dropped Piedmont’s frame and sent the femme (and the couch she was on) flying across the room with a sweep of an arm-wing.

____

Suddenly Jazz was being dragged back into the berthroom by a pale-opticked and frantic Dasher. The mech shut and locked the door. Prowl made a harsh guttural caw. The door trembled with the force of the mech-creature pounding against it.

____

"What the frag, mech?! What the frag?! What is that?! Oh Primus, it killed them, I think it killed them!” Dasher gasped.

____

“I don’ know!” Jazz whispered in panic. “We gotta get outta here!”

____

Dasher stumbled over to the femme, who was still on the berth and tried to shake her. “I can’t wake her up! I tried!”

____

She just shifted in her high-grade (and possibly drug-induced) recharge.

____

“Can we-? Where’s the intercom t’ call th’ front desk?” Jazz asked. “They can call th’ Enforcers fo’ us.”

____

“It’s _out there_.” Dasher whisper-wailed pacing around the room. “And what the frag could the Enforcers do against a monster?”

____

“They have _guns_.” Jazz insisted.

____

The two of them fell silent for a moment. It was then that Jazz realized that the pounding on the door had stopped. Jazz and Dasher looked at each other uneasily.

____

“Wha-?”

____

The window exploded inward. A taloned pede closed around Dasher’s torso and pulled him, screaming, out of the opening. He continued to scream as Prowl mech-handled him and, after apparently realizing that he’d grabbed the wrong mech, dropped him. Prowl attacked the window again, reaching a grasping pede through. While he was caught up, Jazz wrenched the berthroom door open and made a run for it. He heard Prowl shriek again as he darted out the suite’s door and down the hall.

____

Jazz slapped the button for the elevator, helm jerking to look up and down the hall in paranoia. When the elevator announced it’s arrival with a cheery ding, he jumped. A sound down the hall had him jerking around and entering the elevator backwards. He sighed shakily when the doors slid shut. Jazz offlined his visor and just listened to his own plating rattling as the machine descended. After a few kliks he heard a strange tapping sound from behind him. He turned slowly. His servo flew to his mouth to stifle his own cry of horror. His spinal strut hit the doors as he threw himself backwards.

____

How had he forgotten?!

____

The elevators were on the _outside_ of the building and _made of glass_.

____

Prowl hovered just outside of his transparent prison, keeping pace with him as he descended. The taloned pede that had been tapping placed the claws fully on the glass and started scratching their way down with a plating crawling rasp.

____

Jazz swatted backwards at the button panel blindly. The elevator gave another cheerful ding and Jazz scrambled out. What floor was he on?! It didn’t matter! He could still make it down to the lobby by using the emergency stairs and circling the ( _shudder_ ) outside of the building.

____

He should have been more careful, but panic made him reckless. On the final staircase, he tripped and toppled down it with a yelp. A painful jolt and then numbness spread through his leg. He tried to pick himself up, but crumpled back down when the limb wouldn’t hold his weight, throbbing in agony. He’d broken a strut.

____

“Frag!” he whimpered feeling nausea wash through his tanks.

____

He grit his dente and pulled himself up using the wall to help him limp along. If he could just get to the front desk, he could get help. The door to the outside made him hesitate for a long couple of breems. His servo trembled as he reached for the handle.

____

It was quiet outside. The hum of far away traffic a background wash of white noise. Jazz scanned the sky fearfully before inching his way out. He just had to make it around one corner to the front of the hotel. His paint scraped the wall of the building as he clung to it for support.

____

Just one corner. He just had to make it around one corner...

____

A shadow blotting out the light of the moons made the fluids freeze in his lines. Prowl landed next to him with a thump. Jazz lost his hold on the wall and fell on his aft, jarring his leg; he couldn’t keep from crying out in pain.

____

Prowl moved to loom over him. Streaks of still-wet, blue mech blood marred his faceplates. A careful servo touched his leg.

____

“Little fish. You are injured.”

____

Jazz just stared up at him mutely, trembling.

____

“I will take you to my nest to heal. You gave a good chase. You will make a good mate.”

____

“Please, don’t.” Jazz moaned feebly as Prowl gathered him up gently, great taloned pedes wrapping around his torso and waist effortlessly. He was tucked up against warm plating as Prowl beat his wings, gaining altitude slowly.

____

Jazz’s processor finally decided that it’d had enough and flashed warnings of a forced stasis. The last thing Jazz heard before blacking out was Prowl’s shriek of triumph being carried away on the winds of the night.

____


	9. Monster Under the Berth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz didn't understand why his best monsters couldn't scare one little mechling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another monster AU. Heavily inspired by an imgur post I saw shared on Facebook. Also inspired by the ending song from "The Residence DLC" from "Little Nightmares"  
> Also- WARNING for mention of abuse. Nothing happens to our little bitlet, but is is implied.

“I think you’re going to have to deal with this one personally, boss.” Mirage said hesitantly, his optics troubled. Jazz frowned from behind his desk, watching as the other monster’s ice and crystal armor flared and settled with his unease.

Jazz had been in charge of assigning monsters to scare the younglings of the 8th sector for thousands of vorns and he’d never had such difficult case. He’d sent regular monsters and each one had quit. When that failed his sent his special team. And now they’d both failed, too.

First Bumblebee, Now Mirage. Bumblebee had been near traumatised, the poor mute polymorph, drooping and taking refuge in his smallest pit-hound form for cycles.

Why hadn’t his two best agents been able to deal with this? Why was this mechling so hard to scare? This… Prowl.

“Raj…” Jazz hissed warningly.

But the ice demon just pressed his dermas together and refused to say anything. The hollow crack and groan of a calving glacier echoed stubbornly through Jazz’s office.

“Fine. I’ll deal with it myself.” Jazz sighed. It had been some time since he’d done field work, but it shouldn’t be too hard to get back in the groove of things. Besides this first dark-cycle was going to be about reconnaissance. 

After Mirage had left his office, Jazz stood flexing his clawed servos. He stepped between sparkbeats and found himself slithering under a small berth. The parts of the room he could see were clean. Far too clean for a youngling, he mused.

He could hear the mechling in the berth above his helm. Slightly hitching vents, sparkbeat just this side of too fast. The mechling… was already scared? But he shouldn’t even know Jazz was here yet.

A door slammed outside the room. The mechling’s vents sped up with panic. An inarticulate bellow cut through the air. Pedes stomped closer from the hallway.

The mechling, Prowl, clambered off the berth. And dove for the space beneath it. He and Jazz stared at each other in surprise for a klik, and then the youngling shoved at Jazz’s shadowy bulk and whispered hurriedly,

“Move over!”

Completely flabbergasted, Jazz moved instinctively to comply.

The mechling squeezed himself under, flattening his little doorwings at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. He pressed up against Jazz’s side, thin plating clamped down to hide the sound of it rattling. The scent of cleanser clogged Jazz’s olfactory as it slipped past Prowl’s optics.

The door to the mechling’s berthroom was thrown open to slam against the wall.

“Prowl! Where’er y’, y’ little glitch?”

Jazz could smell the stink of highgrade and anger from his spot under the berth.

And now Jazz understood. His monsters hadn’t quit because they couldn’t scare Prowl. They had quit because they could do nothing but watch, unable to protect him.

They had rules in place for a reason. Paramount among these was that no adult should be allowed to see them.

But Jazz was an Old One. He’d been there when the rules had been laid down. He was certain that the powers that be wouldn’t mind an exception in this case. And he intended to make an exception this dark-cycle.

Prowl’s drunken sire reached under the berth, intent on catching his prey, and Jazz smoothy intercepted the grasping servo, allowing himself to be caught in the harsh, denting grip.

The mech didn’t seem to realize at first that the form he was pulling out from the berth was not his creation. 

He noticed when Jazz straightened to his full height, audial horns nearly brushing the ceiling. The mech yelped releasing his hold on inky long-limbed protoform that barely looked mech-like. Jazz’s metal-skin swirled darkly with colors, like an oil spill. There was a mech-blood colored slash of blue light across his face where an optical band should be. He opened his maw wide, showing off his serrated chainsaw denta and lolling whip-like glossa.

He let his power leak out and seek information about the mech in front of him. It told Jazz his fears and nightmares. It changed the sound of Jazz’s voice until it sounded like the shriek of an angry femme mixed with an insecticon howl and the blast furnace of a smelter.

**“Touch him again, and I will hunt you down to the ends of Cybertron.”**

The mech’s optical light shrunk down to pinpricks. Too terrified to scream, he tripped over himself, crashed into a wall and then fled the room. Jazz sent a cold gust of wind to chase him down the hall and close the berthroom door with another slam.

Jazz closed his mouth and offered his servos to the amazed-looking youngling staring out at him from under the berth. Prowl took his servos. He sat on the berth and effortlessly pulled Prowl up into his lap. Jazz concentrated and shrank himself to a more mech-sized form, though there was still no way he’d be mistaken for anything normal. 

He gently wiped away the optical cleanser fluid from Prowl’s cheek ridge with his elongated digits, absorbing just a tiniest bit of the mechling’s fear. He was very careful not to take too much. Only the fear from this dark-cycle. Take too much of an emotion and the affected individual could lose all ability to feel it. Some of Jazz’s less scrupulous brethren were responsible for a number depressed and sociopathic mecha.

With the negative emotion siphoned off, Prowl’s expression turned to one of inquisitiveness.

“What are you?”

Jazz adopted a friendly sounding accent. “‘M a friend.”

With the mechling so close, he could sense the happy memories that kept the little one going. He took a bit of himself, his power, and the sound of those memories, coalescing them into the palm of his servo. A ball of nothingness that compressed and shifted until he held a small, pristine black music box. He offered it to Prowl. 

Helm tilted in curiosity, the mechling wound the key and opened the lid. A tiny figurine of a lilac femme spun and danced as a gentle melody played.

“Carrier.” Prowl whispered.

“If yar ever feelin’ scared, ya give tha’ a wind an’ I’ll be here t’ protect ya. Alrigh’?”

“Okay.” Prowl murmured, optics locked on the spinning figure. He cradled the music box in his little servos as he leaned against the monster’s strange protoform. Jazz could taste his relief, but he didn’t touch an iota of it. He started humming along with the melody, lulling the mechling to sleep. He would keep Prowl safe and happy.

Jazz was Prowl’s monster.


	10. Open Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing Prompt: A local bartender regularly willingly hosts monsters and demons in his bar. When terrorists kidnap his children they learn the hard way how close he is to them.
> 
> Replace terrorists with gang and children with brother and you'll see where my brain went with this.
> 
> I am writing a second snippet for this (hopefully before the end of October)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Why do I keep getting distracted?  
> Jazz-muse: Because writing prompts are fun?

Jazz wasn’t afraid of the things that went bump in the dark-cycle. Most of them were quite pleasant, actually. Just trying to live their lives like any “normal” cybertronian. 

He hadn’t meant to get involved with the secret supernatural community, Jazz had sort of just... stumbled into it by accident.

Jazz and his brother, Ricochet, had moved to Iacon, when they’d lost everything in Polyhex. The big city had seemed so full of promise and empty of old painful memories. Ricochet had gotten a job in an up and coming shipping company while encouraging Jazz to use their combined savings to start up his own venture. It had always been Jazz’s dream to own his own nightclub, and with his brother’s blessing, he opened The Beat.

At that point, Jazz’s view on the supernatural had been like most bots. It was a fun genre to read in datapads or watch on vids, but it wasn’t _real_.

Or so he’d thought.

That view had changed very quickly a deca-cycle after he’d opened The Beat’s doors in the Iaconian dark-cycle life.

It only took one scuffle breaking out between the local beastformer packs in the middle of the bar for his world view to flip aft over teakettle. After chasing off their rivals, the alpha of the winning pack had been very apologetic, offering to pay for the damages. Still in shock at the time, Jazz had just… rolled with it.

That, apparently, had been a signal to the supernatural community at large that his bar was a safe place to be themselves. And, hey, they were paying customers just like any “normal” bot who walked through the door. Sometimes they were more respectful of the rules than some normals.

Making friends with his regulars certainly made his life more interesting.

There was Mirage and Hound, Fair Folk from the winter and summer courts respectively. Mirage was clever and quiet, while Hound was possibly one of the sweetest beings Jazz had ever met. They used his bar as some sort of neutral ground to meet for courting. The fey had their own weird inter-political drama going on. 

All Jazz knew was that the two were very grateful to have a place where they could spend time together in comfort and relative privacy. 

Another set of regulars was a vampire named Red Alert and his mortal conjunx named Inferno. The vampire had been very paranoid at first, watchful and nervous as he half hid in a booth behind his conjunx. But after several deca-cycles, he slowly relaxed. Then, in an unexpected show of trust, Inferno had approached Jazz with a sealed container of his own mech-blood and asked him to mix it into a drink for Red Alert.

That had been a strange experience, but Jazz had obliged and his bar had become their regular haunt.

The beastformer pack that had started it all had claimed his bar as part of their territory. They were all fond of him in their own way. It had taken a while to learn them apart since they always traveled in groups of twos and threes and shared similar frame-types, both in their canis beastforms and mech-frames. Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Barricade, Skids, Nightbeat, and Streetwise.

Except for their alpha. A mech named Prowl. His face had been burned into Jazz’s memory ever since that first encounter. It was hard to forget the fanged denta and brilliant golden optics that had reverted to normal dulled incisors and concerned ice blue lenses in front of his visual center as the mech helped him up from where he’d been pushed down and out of the way of the short, but brutal fight.

His fuel pump still sped up when the beastformer was around, but it stemmed from Jazz’s hopeless attraction to the mech, not fear.

Jazz was almost certain that Prowl knew. How could he not? His pack certainly knew. What with all the pointed conversations and (gently) shoving him into the alpha’s space at any opportune moment. The beastformers were pretty servos-on to begin with; always reaching out to each other- tweaking doorwings, cuffing helms, tapping shoulder pauldrons; but with Jazz it was as if they were making sure that he had some of their nanites on him at all times, especially their alpha’s.

At first, Prowl had seemed unaffected by their antics, but lately he’d been touching Jazz more often of his own accord. A servo on his arm to get his attention, a light press of chassies against his own when he had to lean close to serve Prowl’s drink. And Prowl loomed when they stood next to each other for whatever reason. Polyhexian frames ran small and the beastformer had at least half a helm on him. 

It was all very confusing.

It had also recently gotten more complicated when Ricochet had come to The Beat to congratulate his brother on his successful venture.

He’d met and hit it off with Smokescreen. They had talked about their shared experiences in the shipping business. Smokescreen had definitely been interested, leaning into Ricochet’s space while his packmates had unsubtly ribbed him from across the room. And if the look on his brother’s face was anything to go by, he’d been intrigued as well.

But Ricochet didn’t know about the supernatural world that hid just beneath the thin veneer of their own. And while he’d been attracted to the charming blue and red mech, he’d also come to the wrong conclusion about the pack, thinking it was some sort of gang. He wasn’t _necessarily_ wrong, but Jazz had held in the reflex to facepalm when Ricochet had worriedly questioned him about them.

Oblivious siblings and confused attraction aside, his life was stable, if weird. He liked that The Beat had become something of a haven to the creatures of the dark-cycle. He was always willing to lend a sympathetic audial and serve strange concoctions when needed.

Fitting, really, that it was a group of mortals who fragged up the status quo.

He received the comm. call one evening right before he opened as he was polishing the tables.

:’Ello?:

:Listen up, Poly. You will bring us one million shinax by tomorrow’s dark-cycle, or your brother dies.:

:Wh-wha’? Wha’ ‘ave ya done t’ Ricochet!?:

:Nothing… yet. And if you do as we say, he’ll be returned to you. We will send you the coordinates for the drop tomorrow, a joor before it is due. No Enforcers, or he dies, do you understand?:

:Y-yes.: Jazz choked out.

:Good, mech. And just for a little proof…:

A message popped up in his HUD. Jazz opened it and swallowed back a distressed sound as it revealed a holo-capture of Ricochet slumped in a chair, bound servo and pede.

:Until tomorrow, Poly.:

The comm. cut out.

Jazz sat down with a thump in one of the booths. 

A million shinax? How was he going to get that much money? Even if he emptied both his and Ricochet’s accounts, it wouldn’t be enough.

How? _Why?_

A strangled sob clawed its way out of his vocalizer as he buried his helm in his servos.

What could he do? He had to save Ricochet.

A muffled call of his name and knocking startled him out of his distraught panic. He looked up and saw the whole beastformer pack watching him anxiously though the plate glass window at the front of the bar. Jazz got up and stumbled to the door, unlocking it to let them in. They instantly surrounded him, hackles raised, glaring into corners as if trying to suss out what had upset him.

Prowl put his servos on Jazz arms. “What happened?”

Jazz couldn’t tell the Enforcers… but he could tell Prowl, right?

The Polyhexian sobbed, “S-some bots took Ricochet.” Out of the corner of his visor he saw Smokescreen tense up, plating shifting as he inadvertently started transforming. “If I don’ give them a million shinax by t’morrow, they’ll kill ‘im. If I call th’ Enforcers, they’ll kill ‘im. I can’t- I don’ ‘ave-” he broke off with another sob and closed the distance between them, burying his faceplates into Prowl’s chestplates. The beastformer’s arms immediately encircled him. Prowl’s chassie vibrated with a soothing, rumbled growl.

“It will be alright. We will take care of it.” Prowl’s voice was rougher than normal and when Jazz looked up at his face, he was unsurprised to find him half-shifted. Fangs crowded his mouth, pointed audial shells on his helm pricked forward and his optics were the color of liquid gold. 

Jazz had the most inappropriate desire to kiss him.

Perhaps Prowl picked up on it, for he leant forward and nuzzled Jazz’s helm.

“We will find him and rescue him, I promise.”

“But… how?”

“Ostensibly, by hunting.” A smooth cultured voice spoke up, startling growls out of the beastformers until they recognized the speaker.

“Mirage.” Prowl acknowledged the winter fey.

The white and blue mech stood just inside the now-closed door with Hound beside him.

“You know,” Mirage said nonchalantly, “I think this evening would benefit from a nice thick fog. Don’t you agree, Hound?”

The summer fey perked up. “You’re right.”

Jazz was confused. “Wha’ does tha’ ‘ave t’ do with anythin’?”

Mirage smiled slyly. “You see, the Fair Folk aren’t allowed to interfere directly with mortal affairs, but if one of my whims just happens to help conceal a pack of canis beastformers from mortal optics…”

Prowl nodded his helm in unspoken gratitude. Then he turned his attention back to Jazz. “We will return, soon. You should stay here and-”

Jazz pushed back out of the circle of Prowl’s arms. “No! I’m coming too. He’s my brother.”

“Oh, darling, a beastformer hunt is no place for a regular cybertronian.” Mirage said silkily. And before Jazz could react, the winter fey blew gently across his palm into Jazz’s face. A sparkling mist blinded the Polyhexian and sent him into recharge.

Prowl caught him as his body crumpled. He then placed the recharging mech on the plush seat of one of the larger booths.

“We will watch over him until you return.” Hound said. "Good hunting."

Mirage pressed a palm to the window, optics pailing to a near-translucent white. Outside, the air thickened with white swirling fog as the cycle darkened.

Prowl’s sensor panels flicked up aggressively as he strode out the door, followed by his pack. 

It was time to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This muse totally spiraled out of my control, so this will be getting its own little series.


End file.
